}*? 


«* 


> 


V' 


y 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


Fhotographk) 

ScMices 

Carporatian 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIN/I/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 


m 


Canadian  Inttituta  for  Historical  iVIicroraproductions  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  hiatoriquaa 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIN/I/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 


m 


Canadian  inttituta  for  Historical  IVIicroraproductions  /  inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  hiatoriquaa 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I     I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagAe 


nn   Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  pellicuMe 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


n 


I     I   Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gAographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  inl(  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  biaue  ou  noire) 


I     I   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


D 


D 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int^rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
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II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
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pas  AtA  filmAes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
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point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqute  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
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Pages  restaurtes  et/ou  pellicultes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  dAcolortes,  tachettes  ou  piqutes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  dAtachtes 

Showthroughy 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

QualitA  InAgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppMmeitaire 


I — I  Pages  damaged/ 

I      I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r^  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I     I  Pages  detached/ 

I      I  Showthrough/ 

I     I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


D 
D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  MItion  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'arrata.  une  pelure, 
etc..  ont  At*  filmAes  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  it9m  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmA  au  taux  de  rAduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

2SX 

30X 

)(1 

H 

12X 


16X 


20X 


a4x 


28X 


32X 


MMiMH 


ire 

details 
idu 
modifier 
•r  une 
MImage 


'  arrata 
dto 

It 

a  palura, 

ion  A 


D 


Tha  copy  filmad  hara  haa  baan  raproducad  tlianica 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

Library  of  Congrass 
Photoduplication  Sarvica 

Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poaaibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacif icationa. 


Original  copiaa  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  filmad 
beginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  ending  on 
tha  laat  page  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  imprea- 
aion,  or  the  bacic  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copiaa  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
firat  page  with  a  printed  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion,  and  ending  on  the  laat  page  with  a  pirintad 
or  illuatratad  impreaaion. 


Tha  laat  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
ahall  contain  tha  aymbol  — ^>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  aymbol  Y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  appliea. 

Mapa,  platea,  charta,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratioa.  Thoaa  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  expoaure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framea  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrama  illuatrata  the 
method: 


1  2  3 


L'examplaira  filmA  fut  raproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnAroaitA  da: 

Library  of  Congrass 
Photoduplication  Service 

Les  images  suivantas  ont  AtA  reproduites  avac  ie 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattetA  de  rexempiaira  fiimA,  at  en 
conformity  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Les  exemplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvarture  an 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  filmte  en  commenqant 
par  la  premier  plat  at  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreasion  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  aacond 
plat,  aaion  Ie  caa.  Tous  lea  autrea  axempiairea 
originaux  sont  filmte  an  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreasion  ou  d'illustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
darnlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  aalon  ie 
cas:  la  aymbola  — ►  signlfie  "A  SUIVRE",  Ie 
symbole  ▼  signlfie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  pianchea,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  fttra 
fiimia  A  des  taux  da  reduction  diffArenta. 
Lorsque  Ie  document  eat  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  aeul  clichA,  11  eat  filmA  A  partir 
de  Tangia  supArleur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  baa,  en  prenant  la  nombra 
d'imagea  nAcaaaaira.  Ilea  diagrammes  auivanta 
lllustrent  la  mAthoda. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MM 


/ 


,  "x*^   v»  t^^«r^  ■-  ■' 


IDOLS; 


'4. 


\ 


OR,  THE 


Secret  OF  the  Rue  Chaussee  d'Antin. 


") 


RAOUL  DE  N AVERY,  |>a»<i>u^-«<.- 

BY 

ANNA   T^SADLIER, 

^M40r  c/  ''Namtt  that  Live  in  CatkoUc  HtttrU* 


New  York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Loins:  - 

Pfintm  to  tki  Hofy  A^MtOk  Sm. 
^  i88a. 


^-^ 


COPYKIGHT,   1883.  BY  BENZIGER  BROTHKIS. 


^ 


o- 


^ 


T;  ■ 


Brothers. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

CHATTBR 

I.  The  PoMERKUL  Household 5 

i8 
II.  AProdioalSon 

III.  The  Knights  of  THE  Black  Cap 34 

IV.  The  Crime ^' 

V.  The  Secret  of  God • 

VI.  The  Accusation " 

VII.  HeartTrials ^ 

VIII.  The  Inviolable  Secret... *°5 

.    I90 

IX.  ANEW  Misfortune ••• 

X.  The  Trial *" 

XI.  The  Dream  Ended.. ^^' 

XII.  An  Artist  Supper *^ 

XIII.  The  Golden  Calf *  ' 

9o6 

XIV.  The  War 

XV.  The  Two  Brothers **9 

XVI.  Jean  Machu ^^ 

XVII.  The  Barricades  of  Death ** 

. ..  aSo 
XVIII.  Lipp-Lapp 

XIX.  The  Dwarf's  Secret. "99 

XX.  The  Broken  Idol •^'""  5*' 


IDOLS; 

OB, 

The  Secret  of  the  Rue  Chaus6e  d'Antin. 


CHAPTER  I. 
The  Pomereul  Household. 

Two  men,  who  in  age  and  appearance  were  widely 
different,  sat  conversing  in  a  spacious  study.  The  room 
was  luxurious,  though  somewhat  severe  in  its  arrange-' 
ment.  It  contained  many  fine  representations  in  bronze 
of  masterpieces  of  antique  art.  Antoine  Pomereul,  the 
elder  of  the  two  men,  seemed  upwards  of  sixty  years  of 
age.  His  hair,  which  looked  as  if  a  gale  of  wind  might 
have  passed  through  it,  fell  over  his  massive  temples. 
His  florid  complexion,  the  smile  on  his  lips  and  the  frank 
expression  of  the  face  betokened  a  straightforward  and 
generous  disposition,  and  much  business  ability.  His 
grey  eye  was  wonderfully  penetrating;  the  very  position 
of  his  hand  upon  the  desk  marked  the  energetic  man  of 
business.  ^~ 

His  companion,  on  the  contrary,  was  scarcely  twenty-  C 
five.  His  broad  forehead  bore  the  impress  of  genius 
upon  it,  and  genius  of  a  solid  and  somewhat  serious 
character;  his  expression  was  earnest,  with  a  tinge  of 
mingled  asceticism  and  ideality.  His  figure  was  lithe  and 
graceful,  his  hair  black,  his  complexion  pale,  his  whole 
appearance  most  attractive.    A  voice  true  in  tone  and 


n 


0  IDOLS. 

musical  in  quality  completed  the  charm,  and  added  no 
little  to  the  confidence  which  his  countenance  inspired. 
Nor  did  it  belie  a  nature  at  once  ardent  and  sensitive. 

"  So,  Benedict,"  said  Antoine  Pomereul,  "  you  refuse 
to  draw  aside  the  envious  veil  which  covers  your  statue. 
Your  apprentice,  Cleomene,  has  just  brought  it  here,  and 

1  am  longing  to  see  it.  But  I  assure  you  I  respected  its 
folds,  as  if  they  were  those  of  the  ancient  Isis." 

"Omy  dear  master,"  said  Benedict,  seizing  the  old 
man's  hand  impulsively,  "  if  I  have  kept  it  veiled,  it  is 
because  I  would  fain  see  for  myself  the  impression  it 
produced  upon  you,  and  hear  with  my  own  lips  the  de- 
cree which  will  make  me  happy  or  miserable.  I  want  to 
consult  your  heart  and  mind  alike  in  the  two-fold  deci- 
sion you  are  about  to  give." 

"On  my  honor,"  laughed  Antoine  Pomereul,  "the 
^affair  is  more  serious  than  I  supposed." 

"It  concerns  my  whole  life,"  cried  the  young  man 
eagerly. 

"  You  mean  your  future  as  an  artist,  I  suppose,"  said 
Pomereul,  "and  as  to  that,  my  boy,  many  find  them- 
selves deceived  who  follow  art.  Yes,  those  who  seek  her 
most  often  go  farthest  astray.  Unwilling  to  follow  the 
beaten  path,  they  take  new  and  unknown  ones;  some- 
times they  lose  the  guiding  thread;  their  mind  gropes  in 
darkness;  they  fail  to  realize  the  grandeur  of  their  first 
conception.  However,  Benedict,  it  is  better  even  to  miss 
a  lofty  ideal,  than  to  remain  forever  satisfied  with  what 
is  mediocre  and  trivial." 

"  Judge  for  yourself,"  cried  the  artist,  suddenly  raising 
the  veil  which  covered  the  statue. 

It  was  about  three  feet  in  height,  of  the  purest  Car- 
rara marble.  It  represented  a  young  girl  modestly  clad 
in  a  flowing  robe,  such  as  is  seen  on  fauns  of  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centurieii.     The  eyes  were  raised  to  Hea- 


;harm,  and  added  no 
:ountenance  inspired, 
dent  and  sensitive. 
>mereul,  "you  refuse 
h  covers  your  statue, 
t  brought  it  here,  and 
re  you  I  respected  its 
ncient  Isis." 
edict,  seizing  the  old 
e  kept  it  veiled,  it  is 
elf  the  impression  it 
I  my  own  lips  the  de- 
miserable.  I  want  to 
in  the  two-fold  deci- 

Dine  Pomereul,   "the 

led." 

ried   the  young  man 

rtist,  I  suppose,"  said 
)y,  many  find  them- 
:s,  those  who  seek  her 
twilling  to  follow  the 
inknown  ones;  some- 
their  mind  gropes  in 
randeur  of  their  first 
:  is  better  even  to  miss 
er  satisfied  with  what 

rtist,  suddenly  raising 

t,  of  the  purest  Car- 
ng  girl  modestly  clad 
1  fauns  of  the  twelfth 
:s  were  raised  to  Hea- 


TIIE  rOMEREUL  HOUSEHOLD.  7 

ven,  in  her  hand  she  held  a  chisel  and  hammer;  she 
seemed  the  very  personification  of  the  sculpture  of  that 
period,  a  celestial  daughter  of  prayer,  offering  her  sub- 
limest  work  to  the  God  who  inspired  it.  The  old  man 
regarded  the  statue  for  some  moments  in  nilence,  after 
which  he  grasped  the  young  sculptor's  hand  with  an  air 
of  conviction,  saying, 

"  Good,  my  boy,  good." 

"  Ah,"  said  Benedict,  "  how  happy  you  make  me.** 

"  This  figure  represents — " 

"The  daughter  of  Steinbach,"  answered  Benedict, 
"  architect  of  the  Cathedral  of  Strasburg.  She  assisted 
her  father  in  that  mighty  work,  and  the  pillar  des  Anges, 
of  the  Angels,  bear  her  name,  Sabine." 

"Ah,  Steinbach's  daughter  was  named  Sabine,  like 
mine,"  said  Pomereul,  smiling.  "  Well,  you  are  satisfied 
now,  I  suppose.  Your  statue  is  charming.  The  style  and 
conception  of  it  are  good.  Ypu  have  kept  your  ideal, 
and  the  skill  of  your  chisel  has  not  interfered  with  the 
purity  of  your  inspiration.  Bravo!  yes,  I  say  honestly 
and  in  all  sincerity,  bravo!  Keep  up  your  heart  If  the 
figure  is  small,  the  execution  is  great." 

"Master,"  said  Benedict,  "your  praise  confuses  me." 

"  It  need  not,"  said  Pomereul.  "  I  am  stating  facts.  I 
trust  you  do  not  suspect  me  of  flattering.  You  re- 
member when,  as  a  mere  child,  you  worked  with  my 
sculptors,  how  exacting  I  was.  Exacting  enough  to  dis- 
courage any  one  but  you.  Perhaps  you  thought  me  severe 
or  even  hard.  I  feared  so  myself,  yet  I  continued  in  the 
same  way.  It  is  by  the  patience  of  the  pupil  that  the 
reality  of  his  vocation  is  determined.  Those  cowards 
-who  are  overcome  by  the  difficulties  of  the  task,  and  the 
severity  of  the  master,  are  not  worth  a  regret.  It  is 
doing  them  a  service  to  keep  them  tradesmen,  rather 
than  raise  them  to  the  dignity  of  artiists.    You  blushed. 


8 


IDOLS. 


indeed,  at  my  reproofs,  but  less  with  anger  than  with 
grief  at  your  own  mistakes;  indefatigable  you  began 
again;  every  day  you  made  new  progress,  and  were  not 
vain  of  it;  you  looked  rather  at  what  you  had  yet  to 
learn  than  at  the  facility  already  acquired.  At  last  I 
was  forced  to  turn  you  out  of  the  workshop,  for  you  were 
too  modest  to  see  that  sculpture  was  calling  you  to  her 
service,  and  that  with  me  you  were  making  merely 
models  for  industry." 

"Yes,"  said  Benedict,  "you  are  right;  it  was  neces- 
sary indeed  to  drive  me  from  your  house,  as  I  would 
never  have  left  it.  You  were  anxious  for  my  welfare; 
I  was  more  anxious  to  keep  my  happiness.  You  aspired 
for  me  to  artistic  heights;  I  would  have  sacrificed  every- 
thing at  that  time  to  continue  making  your  pendulums 
and  candelabras.  You  were  right,  but  my  heart  sought  to 
persuade  me  that  you  were  wrong.  I  begin  to  be  known, 
I  may  become  famous;  but  who  will  assure  me  that  I 
have  as  of  old — " 

"The  friendship  of  your  old  master?  But  you  are 
still  part  of  the  family,  Benedict.  I  love  you  almost  as 
much  as  Sulpice  more  perhaps  than  Xavier." 

"Really?" 

"  Really." 

"  Then,  if  I  should  ask  you  a  favor?" 

"  I  am  almost  sure  I  would  grant  it" 

"  Even  if  it  were  something  of  importance?" 

"  Even  is  not  the  word,  say  especially." 

"  Well,"  said  Benedict,  plucking  up  courage,  "  will  you 
allow  me  to  offer  this  statue  to  Mile.  Sabine?  To-mor- 
row is  her  birthday,  and — " 

"  You  dear,  big  boy,"  said  Pomereul,  "  you  were  afraid 
to  finish  the  sentence.  Yet  you  have  lived  ten  years  in 
my  house.  My  severity  towards  you  was  only  a  proof 
of  my  attachment.    When  the  big  tears  rolled  down  your 


IHE   POMEREUL  HOUSEHOLD. 


ith  anger  than  with 
fatigable  you  began 
jgress,  and  were  not 
hat  you  had  yet  to 
acquired.  At  last  I 
tricshop,  for  you  were 
s  calling  you  to  her 
ere    making   merely 

ight;  it  was  neces- 
ir  house,  as  I  would 
ous  for  my  welfare; 
piness.  You  aspired 
lave  sacrificed  every- 
ing  your  pendulums 
It  my  heart  sought  to 
I  begin  to  be  known, 
ill  assure  me  that  I 

^ster?  But  you  are 
I  love  you  almost  as 
I  Xavier." 


ir?" 

it." 

portance?" 

ially." 

p  courage,  "  will  you 

le.  Sabine?    To-mor- 

!ul,  "you  were  afraid 
ve  lived  ten  years  in 
>u  was  only  a  proof 
ars  rolled  down  your 


cheeks  on  the  day  of  your  departure,  it  was  because  you 
left  behind  you  a  happy  past,  and  your  youthful  dreams 
and  ambition.,  But  I  wished  you  to  have  such  a  trial. 
It  was  needed  to  temper  your  soul.  Sheltered  by  my  care 
and  forethought,  you  knew  nothing  of  the  dangers  of  the 
world.  You  thought  that  each  one  lived  there  in  the 
dignity  of  his  own  purity,  and  the  strength  of  his  own 
convictions,  without  either  struggle  or  effort.  I  wanted 
you  to  pass  through  that  fiery  furnace,  and  come  forth 
tempered  for  the  battle  of  life.  The  boy  bade  me  fare- 
well with  swelling  heart  and  tearful  eyes;  I  hoped  that 
the  man  would  return  to  me.  He  is  come.  You  have 
made  no  false  steps  upon  your  way.  Your  gaze  has  re- 
mained fixed  upon  one  star,  your  heart  was  true  to  one 
attachment.  It  was  well  done;  it  is  rare  and  beautiful. 
Artists  of  your  age  often  drag  their  inspiring  muse  in 
the  mud.  But  you  begged  her  to  raise  you  upon  her 
wings,  and  she  has  kept  you  there.  You  have  often 
called  me  your  benefactor,  to-day  you  called  me  master, 
there  ii  but  one  more  title  you  can  give  me." 

"One  title,"  cried  Benedict,  "then  you  understand, 
you  do  not  despise  my — " 

"Your  father  gives  you  his  hand,"  said  PomereuL 
Benedict  grasped  it,  with  large  tears  standing  in  his 
eyes,  and  thus  the  two  men  stood  face  to  face  for  some 
moments,  emotion  keeping  them  silent.  It  was  with 
regret  they  both  heard  Baptiste's  voice  at  the  door, 
asking, 

"Can  you  receive  M.  Andri  Nicois,  sir?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  M.  Pomereul  advancing  towards  the 
door. 

"  Then,  my  statue—"  said  Benedict 

"  Is  Sabine's  property  now,"  said  Pomereul,  "  and  by 
the  way,  we  must  let  her  have  this  surprise  as  soon  as 
possible."  , 


ii' 


lO 


IDOLS. 


As  he  spoke  M.  Pomereul  turned  to  the  darkest  ccf  ner 
of  the  room,  calling, 

"Lipp-Lapp!" 

Hearing  its  name,  a  strange  creature  came  out  of  the 
shadow  where  it  had  been  hidden.  It  stood  upright 
and  firmly  on  its  feet,  letting  its  arms  hang  down  beside 
its  lean  body,  and  came  towards  its  master. 

It  was  a  chimpanzee  of  the  larger  species,  with  intel- 
ligent face,  mild  dark  eyes,  and  a  broad  wide-open 
mouth,  which  seemed  about  to  speak.  Lipp-Lapp's  eyes 
gleamed  with  intelligence.  He  wore  a  robe  of  brocade, 
ornamented  with  pearls  and  gold,  such  as  is  seen  in  pic- 
tures of  blacks  by  Italian  masters.  He  had  a  bright 
colored  turban  on  his  head,  and  seemed  very  proud  of 
his  fine  clothes.  He  had  been  brought  from  Java  to 
M  Pomereul  by  a  friend,  and  had  soon  learned,  as 
many  of  his  race  have  done,  to  perform  various  little 
domestic  services.  He  could  carry  a  tray  of  fruit, 
liqueur,  or  coffee  with  perfect  safety,  distribute  the 
letters,  and  could  besides  understand  almost  any  order 
given  to  him. 

"  Lipp-Lapp,"  said  M.  Pomereul,  "  take  this  statue  and 
put  it  on  Mile.  Sabine's  mantelpiece." 

The  chimpanzee  showed  all  his  teeth  in  a  broad  grin; 
he  seized  the  figure  in  his  strong  and  dextrous  arms, 
and  went  off  in  the  direction  of  Mile.  Pomereul's  apart- 
ments. 

"My  daughter  is  out,"  said  Pomereul;  "on  her  return 
she  will  find  the  statue,  and  can  thank  you  this  evening. 
You  must  dine  with  us,  my  boy." 

Benedict  only  wrung  M.  Pomereul's  hand,  exchanged 
salutes  with  M.  Nicois,  who  was  coming  in,  and  left  the 
house  radiant  with  joy. 

M.  Pomereul  perceived  at  once  that  the  countenance 
of  his  visitor  was  anxious  and  troubled.     Unlike  many 


to  the  darkest  ccf  ner 


iture  came  out  of  the 
1.  It  stood  upright 
ms  hang  down  beside 
i  master. 

5r  species,  with  intel- 
a  broad  wide-open 
ik.  Lipp-Lapp's  eyes 
ire  a  robe  of  brocade, 
such  as  is  seen  in  pic- 
's. He  had  a  bright 
eemed  very  proud  of 
rought  from  Java  to 
lad  soon  learned,  as 
)erform  various  little 
irry  a  tray  of  fruit, 
lafety,  distribute  the 
ind  almost  any  order 

"  take  this  statue  and 

B." 

:eeth  in  a  broad  grin; 

and  dextrous  arms, 

lie.  Pomereul's  apart- 

sreul;  "on  her  return 
ank  you  this  evening. 

ul's  hand,  exchanged 
>ming  in,  and  left  the 

that  the  countenance 
ubled.     Unlike  many 


THE  POMEREUL  HOUSEHOLD. 


II 


people,  who  seeing  their  friends  in  distress,  begin  an  ac- 
count of  their  own  difficulties,  for  fear  of  being  called  on 
for  assistance,  M.  Pomereul  took  a  chair  opposite  Nicois, 
and  said  to  him  bluntly, 

"  What  has  gone  wrong  with  you  ?" 

"  Everything  has  gone  wrong,"  said  Nicois.  "  I  came 
on  purpose  to  tell  you,  and  now — " 

"You  hes'tate,"  said  Pomereul;  "but  I  say,  what  is 
the  use  of  having  friends  if  you  cannot  ask  a  favor  of 
them?  It  was  just  the  same  with  that  fine,  clever  boy 
who  has  gone  out.  He  came  to  open  his  heart  to  me, 
and  I  was  obliged  to  offer  him  Sabine  in  marriage.  You 
need  money." 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?"  cried  Nicois  excitedly. 

"  No  one,"  answered  his  friend. 

"  Can  you  assure  me  of  this,"  said  Nicois,  "  there  are 
no  rumors  at  the  Bourse  ?"  * 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Pomereul,  "the  talk  there 
yesterday  was  how  solid  you  were.  li  you  are  in  diffi- 
culties, no  hint  of  it  has  got  about.  But  I  simply  judge 
from  this.  Nothing  else  bu;  financial  embarrassment 
could  make  you  look  so  down  in  the  mouth,  and  what 
else  could  have  brought  you  here  just  before  the  end  of 
the  month,  if  it  were  not  to  say,  Friend  Pomereul,  open 
your  money-chest  wide.     I  want  to  put  in  both  hands." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Nicois,  "you  are  as  clear-sighted 
as  generous.    I  need  money,  a  large  sum." 

"How  much?" 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs,"  said  the  banker  with 
much  embarrassment. 

"  I  have  not  that  much  in  the  house,"  said  Pomereul 
quietly,  "  but  I  can  get  it  for  you.     Come  here  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  ready." 
> 

*  Exchange. 


^W-^i 


/ 


12 


IDOLS. 


"  You  will  save  my  life,"  said  Nicois. 

"  Ah,  it  is  too  much  to  put  life  in  the  scale  with  money," 
said  Pomereul.  "  I  simply  do  you  a  service,  which  in  like 
circumstances  I  should  ask  of  you.  If  friendship  does 
not  go  as  far  as  the  purse,  and  a  little  beyond,  there  is 
not  much  use  in  making  a  parade  of  it." 

"Pomereul,"  said  Nicois,  "you  know  what  true  friend- 
ship is,  though  you  do  not  make  a  parade  of  it.  But 
who  could  be  more  noble,  more  unselfish  than  you  are,  to 
your  very  workmen,  to  all  who  surround  you?" 

"Stop  there,"  said  Pomereul;  "I  object.  What  you 
ca,ll  unselfishness,  generosity,  liberality,  and  so  on,  is  only 
a  knowledge  of  business.  If  I  have  laid  a  foundation  of 
benevolence  to  others,  it  is  only  making  a  profitable  in- 
vestment. I  am  rich,  and  it  gives  me  the  very  great 
happiness  of  being  loved  by  those  around  me,  respected 
without  being  feared,  and  the  possessor  of  four  millions, 
without  having  any  enemies  or  being  envied.  Looking 
back  upon  my  life,  it  seems  that  in  all  its  circumstances  I 
was  blessed  by  Providence.  There  is  one  cloud  upon  the 
blue  horizon,  but  that  I  trust  will  in  time  disappear.  My 
father  was  a  blacksmith,  pursuing  his  humble  trade,  and 
gaining  a  scanty  sustenance.  I  resolved  to  aid  him  by  my 
earnings.  As  a  mere  boy  I  got  a  situation  in  a  bronze 
factory.  I  was  employed  only  to  run  errands,  and  to 
sweep  the  store.  But  I  never  loitered  upon  the  way,  nor 
left  a  speck  of  dust  where  my  broom  had  been.  So  I 
won  my  employer's  confidence.  He  made  me  an  ap- 
prentice. I  astonished  the  workmen  by  my  facility  in 
learning.  My  master  began  to  take  a  special  interest  in 
me.  He  had  me  taught  the  intricacies  of  the  trade, 
instead  of  leaving  me  to  spend  my  life  toiling  at,  its 
lower  branches.  I  attempted  first  the  casting,  then  Uie 
setting  or  the  carving  of  large  pieces.  At  twenty,  few 
workmen  could  equal  me.    If  my  education  was  not 


"'^.ti-itiiiMmMmmgteaimiimi' 


IS. 

!  scale  with  money," 
ervice,  which  in  like 

If  friendship  does 
le  beyond,  there  is 
it." 

>w  what  true  friend- 
parade  of  it.  But 
ish  than  you  are,  to 
und  you?" 
object.  What  you 
:y,  and  so  on,  is  only 
aid  a  foundation  of 
ing  a  profitable  in- 
me  the  very  great 
3und  me,  respected 
3or  of  four  millions, 
J  envied.  Looking 
i  its  circumstances  I 
one  cloud  upon  the 
ime  disappear.    My 

humble  trade,  and 
ed  to  aid  him  by  my 
nation  in  a  bronze 
iin  errands,  and  to 

upon  the  way,  nor 
31  had  been.    So  I 

made  me  an  ap- 
I  by  my  facility  in 

special  interest  in 
icies  of  the  trade, 

life  toiling  at,  its 
e  casting,  then  the 
At  twenty,  fe# 
education  was  not 


■.;v*«*f.,«fciJt^fti^?^i^*-«"'" 


THE  rOMEREUL  HOUSEHOLD. 


«3 


classical,  it  was  at  least  sound  and  practical.  From  that 
time  my  lot  was  cast.  The  proprietor  had  a  daughter. 
He  gave  her  to  me  in  marriage.  The  firm  name  became 
'Bernard  et  Pomereul.'  It  continued  so  for  three 
years.  Then  Bernard  died,  and  my  name  alone  was  on 
books  or  invoices.  I  succeeded  him.  I  had  three  chil- 
dren,  and  our  happiness  was,  indeed,  enviable,  when  the 
greatest  grief  of  my  life  came  upon  me.  My  wife  died. 
I  thought  at  first  I  should  never  be  consoled  for  her 
loss,  but  though  I  have  never  forgotten  her,  time  has 
softened  my  sorrow.  My  children  remain  to  me— Sul- 
pice,  whose  intellect  is  far  in  advance  of  his  age, 
Xavier,  whose  good  heart  redeems  his  folly,  and  Sabine,' 
the  angel  of  our  house." 
"Ah,  yes,"  said  Nicois,  "you  area  happy  father." 
Pomereul  sighed,  and  resumed. 

"  What  was  done  for  me,  the  poor  child  of  Paris,  with- 
out any  other  recommendation  than  his  own  desire  to 
do  right,  I  have  always  tried  to  do  for  others.     I  have 
striven  to  be  rather  the  father  than  the  master  of  my 
workmen.    If  I  do  all  that  is  necessary  in  paying  them 
their  salary,  I  love  to  do  more  for  my  own  satisfaction. 
You  must  see  sometime  how  I   have  organized  their 
dwellings  at  Charenton,  near  the  factory.     Each  family 
has  its  own  house,  which  is  simple  and   comfortable. 
There  is  water  to  purify  and  take  away  the  bad  proper- 
ties of  the  gas,  which  gives  it  warmth  and  light;  a  little 
plot  of  ground  to  supply  it  with  vegetables  and  to  grow 
flowers;  the  children  can  likewise  raise  rabbits  there,  and 
the  good  wife,  chickens.     I  have,  besides,  a  hospital  for 
the  sick,  a  crib  for  nursing  infants,  a  workroom  for  girls, 
an  infant  school  for  the  little  ones.    My  factory  really  in- 
cludes a  complete  city,  of  wViich  I  am  chief  magistrate." 
"And  of  which  your  son  aulpice  is  the  apostle,"  said 
Nicois. 


illl 


a 


/ 


14 


IDOLS. 


"  Yes,"  replied  Pomereul,  in  a  voice  of  considerable 
emotion, "  you  may  well  say  Sulpice  is  an  apostle.  What 
I  do  through  philanthropy,  he  does  from  pure  charity. 
I  bring  to  one  corner  of  the  earth  comforts,  improve- 
ments, worldly  goods,  but  he  brings  Heaven  there.  He 
teaches  catechism  to  the  children,  guides  the  family,  is 
the  adviser  of  the  father,  and  is  beloved  and  respected 
by  every  one.  He  has  made  my  workmen  doubly  honest 
and  faithful  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties.  There  is 
perfect  harmony  between  their  principles  and  conduct. 
Seeing  the  son  of  their  master,  the  millionaire,  Sulpice 
Pomereul,  working  among  them  in  his  poor  cassock 
and  coarse  shoes,  they  cannot  doubt  the  divine  char- 
acter of  a  religion  which  inspires  such  sacrifices.  Sul- 
pice translates  the  Bible  into  action,  and  he  might  say, 
with  the  noble  pride  of  an  apostle.  Be  ye  also  my  imi- 
tators, as  I  am  the  imitator  of  Christ  Jesus.  Truly  I 
love  Sulpice  as  a  living  part  of  my  own  heart.  But  at 
times  the  veneration  I  feel  for  his  virtues  is  even  greater 
than  my  affection.  There  could  not  be  a  finer  spectacle 
than  that  of  a  young  man  endowed  with  every  gift  of 
mind  and  fortune,  renouncing  the  privileges  of  the 
upper  few  to  devote  his  life  to  the  education  of  poor  chil- 
dren, the  consolation  of  the  wretched,  and  the  relief  of 
human  misery.  Therefore  Sulpice  is  beloved  and  vener- 
ated by  all  who  know  him.  They  knock  much  oftener  at 
the  door  of  the  humble  room  which  he  keeps  for  himself 
in  the  attic,  than  at  that  of  the  rich  merchant,  member  of 
the  Municipal  Council,  and  Judge  in  the  Tribunal  de 
Commerce.  Every  one  in  the  house  feels  the  influence  of 
his  gentleness  and  piety.  I  do  not  speak  of  Sabine,  she  is  an 
angel,  but  customers,  friends,  servants,  all,  except  Xavier." 

"  You  exaggerate  these  youthful  follies  of  Xavier,'^  said 
Nicdis;"why  the  deuce  take  it,  Pomereul,  a  boy  must 
sow  his  wild  oats." 


•utmtkmmtimilm 


THE   POMEREUL  HOUSEHOLD. 


15 


ice  of  considerable 
s  an  apostle.    What 

from  pure  charity. 

comforts,  improve- 
Heaven  there.  He 
;uides  the  family,  is 
oved  and  respected 
kmen  doubly  honest 
sir  duties.  There  is 
ciples  and  conduct. 

millionaire,  Sulpice 
n  his  poor  cassock 
)t  the  divine  char- 
uch  sacrifices.  Sul- 
I,  and  he  might  say, 
Be  ye  also  my  imi- 
•ist  Jesus.  Truly  I 
own  heart.  But  at 
■tues  is  even  greater 

be  a  finer  spectacle 
I  with  every  gift  of 
;  privileges  of  the 
ucation  of  poor  chil- 
id,  and  the  relief  of 
5  beloved  andvener- 
lock  muchoftenerat 
he  keeps  for  himself 
(lerchant,  member  of 

in  the  Tribunal  de 
feels  the  influence  of 
ik  of  Sabine,  she  is  an 
s,  all,  except  Xavier." 
lilies  of  Xavier,'^  said 
mereul,  a  boy  must 


"  What  they  sow  they  must  reap,"  said  Pomcreul. 

"Ah,  well,  he  will  come  out  right,"  said  Nicois;  "  per- 
haps he  needed  a  fjiend  and  adviser  of  his  own  age  in 
whom  he  could  confide.  Sulpice  is  rather  too  austere 
for  your  youngest  son,  and  Sabine's  very  innocence  pre- 
vents her  being  of  service  to  htm." 

"  And  what  of  me  ?"  asked  Pomereul. 

"  You,  why  confound  it,  man,  you  are  his  father.  Be- 
sides you  are  of  that  disposition  which  difficulties  to  be 
overcome  in  early  life  naturally  make  a  man,  and  whose 
character  forbids  Xavier  to  confide  in  him.  Things  will 
improve  when  Benedict  Fougerais  is  your  son-in-law,  for 
you  said,  did  you  not,  that  you  meant  to  give  him  Sabine?" 

"Gladly,  my  friend,"  said    Pomereul.     "Benedict  is 
one  of  those  young  men  who  left  my  workshop  to  be- 
come masters  in  their  turn.     For  I  have  the  deep  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  my  house  has  produced  men 
who  will  be  an  honor  to  their  country.    One  reason  why 
I  love  my  calling  is  that  it  enab.les  me  to  aid  deserving 
talent.     Once  a  boy  gains  the  special  interest  of  his  pro- 
fessor in  drawing  or  modelling  I  keep  my  eye  on  him.    I 
inquire  as  to  the  condition  of  his  family.     If  they  are 
poor  I  give  the  boy  a  pension,  stipulating  that  he  will 
pay  me  back,  by  yearly  sums,  till  he  has  paid  all  I  have 
advanced.     This,  in   turn,  is  used  to  open  a  future  to 
some  other  boy.     It  has  another  advantage,  for  it  teaches 
them  the  proper  value  of  money;  that  they  must  regard 
it,  not  as  an  idol,  but  as  a  power;  that  it  must  be  used 
less  for  our  pleasures  than    our  necessities;    that  its 
worth  may  be  increased  a  hundred-fold  by  the  use  made 
of  it.     Many  artists   owe  their  future  to  this  plan  of 
mine:  Luc  Aubry,  the  landscape  painter,  Jean  Leroux, 
who  painted  the  interior,  which  you  bought  last  year, 
Benedict  Fougerais,' who  is  likely  to  take  a  front  rank 
among  our  sculptors  if  he  does  not  degenerate." 


f'l. 


%*««i; 


•W^'^' 


/ 


;.      » 


i6 


IDOLS. 


"  Degenerate,  when  he  is  Sabine's  husband  ?" 

"  I  do  not  mean  degeneracy  of  hand  or  of  intellect." 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  A  moral  degeneracy." 

"  That  will  be  impossible  when  he  is  surrounded  by 
such  an  atmosphere  as  this." 

"  I  hope  so,  but  who  can  tell  ?  You  know  how  fatally 
easy  and  insidious  is  the  descent  of  an  artist.  Benedict 
only  knows  the  great  art,  pure,  religious,  Christian,  the 
art  which  is  the  softened  shade  of  religious  feeling.  He 
is  of  the  school  of  Fra  Bartolomeo  and  Fra  Angelico,  who 
painted  their  Madonnas  on  their  knees.  But  the  current 
of  fashion  and  of  popular  taste  does  not  run  upon 
that  side.  Art  has  become  pagan.  It  has  descended 
from  the  sacred  heights.  The  Muse  has  become  a  Bac- 
chante and  dances  with  satyrs;  a  modest  statue  or  a 
decent  picture  loses  half  its  chance  of  success.  The 
churches  are  no  longer  endowed  with  works  of  a  re- 
ligious inspiration,  but  rather  the  drawing-rooms  are 
decorated  with  profane  or  indecent  figures.  Therefore, 
woe  to  the  artist,  however  gifted,  who  sacrifices  his 
power  of  inspiration  to  every  passing  whim,  who  says 
to  himself,  not,  I  am  going  to  create  something  g^eat, 
but,  I  am  going  to  make  a  gfroup  which  will  sell.  First, 
he  tries  to  succeed,  then  to  succeed  again,  then  to  be 
talked  of  in  the  papers.  So  far  Benedict  has  escaped 
these  perils.    God  grant  he  may  continue  so."  ' 

"  Rest  easy,"  said  Nicois;  "  not  only  will  he  do  that, 
but  he  will  bring  back  your  prodigal  son." 

"  You  believe  so  ?"  said  Pomereul. 

"  Most  sincerely;  we  were  alt  foolish  at  his  age,  except 
you  perhaps." 

"  And  you  too,  I  hope,"  said  Pomereul,  looking  fixedly 
at  his  friend. 

A  dark  shade  passed  over  the  banker's  face. 


-BWria  I 


husband  ?" 

id  or  of  intellect." 


le  is  surrounded  by 

>u  know  how  fatally 
an  artist.  Benedict 
gious,  Christian,  the 
ligious  feeling.  He 
d  Fra  Angelico,  who 
:es.  But  the  current 
[oes  not  run  upon 
It  has  descended 
!  has  become  a  Bac- 
modest  statue  or  a 
e  of  success.  The 
rith  works  of  a  re- 
drawing-rooms  are 
figures.  Therefore, 
who  sacrifices  his 
ng  whim,  who  sa3'^s 
te  something  g^eat, 
hich  will  sell.  First, 
d  again,  then  to  be 
enedict  has  escaped 
itinue  so." ' 
mly  will  he  do  that, 
il  son." 

sh  at  his  age,  except 

reul,  looking  fixedly 

ker'sface. 


THE  POMEREUL  HOUSEHOLD. 


>7 


"  My  friend,"  said  he,  in  a  troubled  voice,  "  I  paid  to 
folly  one  tribute,  which  though  brief  cost  me  dear.  My 
hair  has  been  always  white  since  you  knew  me,  has  it 
not  ?" 

"It  is  true." 

"  It  grew  white  in  a  single  night." 
"  In  consequence  of  some  terrible  misfortune  ?" 
"Yes,  you  name  it  right,  a  terrible  misfortune,"  said 
Nicois. 

Seeing  his  friend's  astonishment  at  this  unexpected 
confidence  he  continued: 

"It  is  since  that,  I  have  had  such  a  passion  for  money. 
Till  then  I  only  thought  of  it  as  a  means  of  obtaining  an 
independent  position;  now,  I  want  it  to  gratify  my  pride, 
my  wife's  follies,  to  excite  the  envy  of  others,  and  plunge 
myself  into  such  a  whirlpool  of  business  and  of  pleasure 
that  I  forget,  or  at  least  for  an  hour  lose  that  one  recol- 
lection." 

"Will  you  not  confide  to  me  the  cause  of  your  suffer- 
ing  ?" 

"Ah,"  said  Nicois,  "if  you  knew  all.  But  some  day 
the  friend  will  come  to  your  fireside  and  open  his  heart 
to  you.  To-day,  the  banker  alone  has  told  you  his  mis- 
fortune." 

Pomereul  took  his  friend's  outstretched  hand.  Nicois 
rose  to  go. 

"  You  say  that  the  money  will  be  ready  for  me  the  day 
after  to-morrow?" 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  said  Pomereul,  "a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  will  be  in  this  portfolio  for  you." 

As  Nicois  passed  out,  Lipp-Lapp  brought  him  his 
overcoat  and  cane. 


1 
I  II 

il 

m 


,1.1 


P^"*)ai 


/ 


I8  IDOLS. 


CHAPTER  II. 
A   Prodigal    Son, 

In  the  Pomereul  household  everything,  even  to  the 
smallest  details,  was  as  orderly  as  possible.  The  mer- 
chant himself  fully  appreciating  the  value  of  time  never 
permitted  it  to  be  wasted  in  idleness.  Many  people  by 
delaying  lose  a  few  minutes  now  and  a  few  minutes 
again,  which  at  the  end  of  the  week  amounts  to  several 
hours.  The  clocks  always  went  to  perfection,  and  the 
manufacturer  of  bronze  daily  found  that  rare  phenomenon 
so  eagerly  sought  by  Charles  V.,  all  the  clocks  struck  at 
the  same  moment.  At  six  precisely  the  family  sat  down 
to  dinner.  Pomereul  never  waited  for  anybody.  He 
considered  want  of  punctuality  a  breach  of  good  man- 
ners, towards  which  people  are  usually  too  indulgent. 
When  Xavier  dined  out  he  generally  let  his  father  know. 
But  on  this  particular  occasion,  when  the  butler  an- 
nounced dinner,  Pomereul,  Sulpice,  Sabine  and  Benedict 
were  in  the  drawing-room,  but  no  Xavier. 

Sabine's  face  was  bright  and  joyful.  She  sat  at  a 
window  talking  to  her  betrothed,  and  a  ray  of  the  setting 
sVm  falling  on  her  golden  hair  formed  of  it  an  aureola. 
Her  only  ornament  was  a  white  rose,  which  she  had 
added  to  her  simple  toilet  from  the  bouquet  Benedict 
had  brought  her. 

Pomereul  and  Sulpice  were  conversing  in  a  low  voice 
,of  Sabine's  betrothal,  and  the  young  priest  seemed  very 
much  pleased  about  it. 

"It  is  one  of  those  unions,"  said  he  to  his  father, 
"which  are  too  seldom  seen  nowadays.  On  the  6ne 
hand  is  Sabine  with  all  the  virtues  which  form  the  hig^- 
e^t  charm   and    special  strength  of  a  woman;  on  the 


■cmIiw 


i'i'-mtmimlm 


ything,  even  to  the 
possible.  The  mer- 
value  of  time  never 
s.  Many  people  by 
and  a  few  minutes 
:  amounts  to  several 

perfection,  and  the 
fiat  rare  phenomenon 

the  clocks  struck  at 
the  family  sat  down 

for  anybody.  He 
reach  of  good  man- 
ually too  indulgent. 
'  let  his  father  know, 
hen  the  butler  an- 
Sabine  and  Benedict 
avier. 

yful.  She  sat  at  a 
1  a  ray  of  the  setting 
led  of  it  an  aureola, 
ose,  which  she  had 
le  bouquet  Benedict 

rsing  in  a  low  voice 
priest  seemed  very 

id  he  to  his  father, 
days.  On  the  6ne 
rhich  form  the  hig^- 
f  a  woman;  on  the 


"rmr 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


»9 


other,  Benedict,  with  his  energy,  love  of  work  and  law- 
ful ambition.  You  know  Benedict's  talents,  his  moral 
character,  his  strong  religious  principles,  and  you  do  well 
to  place  my  sister's  hand  in  his.  They  both  know  full 
well,  despite  the  illusions  of  their  age,  that  the  future 
will  have  many  trials  for  them,  but  they  know  also  that 
they  can  overcome  these  trials.  The  blessing  of  heaven 
must  surely  rest  on  such  a  marriage,  and  I  shall  gladly 
perform  the  ceremony  which  unites  them." 

"  You  remind  me,"  said  M.  Pomereul  smiling,  "  that 
Benedict  and  I  have  not  yet  spoken  of  Sabine's  dowry." 

"  Your  lawyer  will  attend  to  that,"  said  Sulpice. 

"No,"  said  M.  Pomereul,  "when  you  want  a  thing 
well  done  do  it  yourself." 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  to  the  young  people. 

"Come  here  a  moment,  Benedict,"  said  he. 

The  young  man  came. 

"My  good  son-in-law,"  said  Pomereul,  "you  acted 
somewhat  thoughtlessly  yesterday  about  a  certain  mat- 
ter. I  must  say  it  did  not  give  me  a  very  high  opinion 
of  your  business  ability.  How  can  you  possibly  sign 
contracts  for  your  work,  or  make  agreements  if  you 
know  so  little  of  the  value  of  money,  that  you  did  not 
ask  me  what  dowry  I  would  give  Sabine  ?' 

"  A  dowry  to  Sabine  ?"  cried  Benedict.  "  I  do  not  want 
any." 

"  You  do  not  want  any  ?"  said  Pomereul. 

"  Most  assuredly  not,"  said  Benedict.  "  Is  it  not  enough 
that  I  am  to  become  the  husband  of  such  a  girl  as  that 
without  receiving  a  large  sum  of  money  ?  Do  you  think 
that  while  you  live  I  would  ever  take  a  penny  of  your 
fortune  from  you  ?  By  doing  so  I  would  offend  Sabine 
and  degrade  myself.  I  am  only  twenty-five.  I  am" will- 
ing to  work  and  I  may  add  I  have  talents.  I  can  easily 
supply  our  little  wants.  .No,  dear  father.    I  refuse  to 


/ 


20 


IDOLS. 


accept  her  dowry,  and  I  am  sure  Sabine  thinks  as  I 
do." 

"Yes,"  said  Sabine,  in  a  voice  full  of  emotion,  "you 
are  right,  perfectly  right." 

Pomereul  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"  Believe  me,"  said  Benedict  earnestly,  "  it  is  better 
that  young  people  should  not  have  too  much  money  at 
first.  Sometimes  their  future  is  marred  rather  than 
made  by  premature  good  fortune.  Money  is  rather  an 
incentive  to  idleness  than  to  work.  The  rich  are  more 
apt  to  gather  round  them  a  crowd  of  parasites  and  flat- 
terers. For  an  artist,  wealth  is  a  positive  misfortune. 
It  induces  him  to  waste  his  time,  and  the  very  praise  be- 
stowed on  him  is  often  given  less  to  the  artist  than  to 
the  rich  man,  so  that  it  blinds  him  to  the  real  value  of 
his  work." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Sulpice,  pressing  Benedict's 
hand. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  too,"  said  Sabine,  blushing,  "  that  it 
robs  the  wife  of  half  her  merit;  it  condemns  her  to  idle- 
ness, by  making  her  rich  all  at  once.  A  wealthy  bride 
seems  to  owe  everything  to  her  family,  and  nothing  to 
her  husband.  What  will  it  matter,  dear  father,  if  the 
daughter  of  the  millionaire  Pomereul  be  without  hordes 
or  diamonds?  I  can  use  your  carriage  at  need,  and 
Benedict  shall  see  that  I  know  how  to  dispense  with 
these  things  cheerfully.  My  surroundings  will  be  hum- 
ble; so  much  the  better.  I  shall  go  out  of  my  world  in 
marrying  an  artist,  and  yet  I  will  remain  myself.  I  do 
not  need  large  means,  which  would  render  work  useless, 
lead  me  to  love  the  world,  and  to  rival  other  women  in 
dress  and  extravagance.  We  will  live  upon  my  hus- 
band's earnings  as  my  mother  was  content  to  live  upon 
yours." 

Pomereul  opened  his  arms  to  Sabine., 


.''-it'WW'.';«w,!;w.)8li 


abine  thinks  as  I 

of  emotion,  "you 

isly. 

:stly,  "  it  is  better 
oo  much  money  at 
arred  rather  than 
VIoney  is  rather  an 
The  rich  are  more 
parasites  and  flat- 
ositive  misfortune, 
the  very  praise  be- 
>  the  artist  than  to 
0  the  real  value  of 

pressing  Benedict's 

,  blushing,  "  that  it 

ndemns  her  to  idle- 

A  wealthy  bride 

ly,  and  nothing  to 

dear  father,  if  the 

i  be  without  hordes 

iage  at  need,  and 

r  to  dispense  with 

idings  will  be  hum- 

)ut  of  my  world  in 

nain  myself.    I  do 

:nder  work  useless, 

al  other  women  in 

ive  upon  my  hus- 

>ntent  to  live  upon 

le. 


A   rKOniGAL  SON. 


St 


"Dear  daughter,"  he  said,  "and  dear  son,  more 
touched  than  I  can  express,  I  yield  to  your  youthful 
wisdom.  You  are  now  voluntarily  poor.  But  you 
will  permit  me  once  and  a  while  to  give  you  a  little 
surprise." 

"  We  will  permit  whatever  will  be  a  pleasure  to  you," 
said  Benedict. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Pomereul  gayly,  recovering  from 
his  emotion,  "  we  shall  serve  up  surprises,  like  truffles, 
under  a  napkin." 

At  that  moment  Lipp-Lapp  threw  open  the  doors, 
and  drew  aside  the  curtains,  while  the  voice  of  Baptiste 
announced, 

"  Dinner." 

The  great  clock  struck  six. 

The  same  thought  occurred  to  Sabine  and  Sulpice. 
Xavier  was  not  there. 

Benedict,  who  read  what  was  passing  in  Sabine's 
mind,  said  to  M.  Pomereul,  in  a  half  entreating  way, 

"  Shall  we  not  wait  for  Xavier  ?" 

"  No,  my  boy,"  said  M.  Pomereul  firmly,  "  it  is  his 
duty  to  be  punctual,  he  has  not  done  his  duty." 

"  He  forgot  that  this  night  was  not  like  every  other." 

"  He  knows  that  he  owes  me  respect  and  deference," 
said  Pomereul,  "  that  should  suffice.  Give  Sabine  your 
arm,  Benedict;  we  must  not  let  the  dinner  cool." 

They  went  into  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  large 
square  room,  made  octagon  in  shape  by  g^eat  side- 
boards,  laden  with  massive  silver.  The  bright  light  of 
the  lamps  shone  on  choice  pictures;  the  table  linen  was 
snowy  white;  vases  of  flowers  ornamented  the  table; 
comfort  and  taste  reigned  supreme  at  this  board,  where 
the  finest  crystal  rivalled  the  choicest  of  porcelain. 

Taking  up  her  napkin,  Sabine  uttered  a  cry  of  delight; 
a  magnificent  bracelet  of  diamonds  lay  beneath  it 


wm 


a  Sis'! 


/ 


la 


IDOLS. 


"Ah,  father,"  said  the  young  girl  reproachfully,  "al- 
ready!" 

"It  belonged  to  your  mother,"  said  M.  Pomereul 
quietly. 

Sulpice  was  at  his  father's  right  hand,  Sabine  to  the 
left,  while  Benedict  sat  facing  his  future  father-in-law. 

An  empty  chair  awaited  Xavier. 

The  commencement  of  the  meal  was  cheerful,  spite  of 
the  young  man's  absence.  M.  Pomereul  himself  gave 
the  tone  to  it,  and  besides  an  incident  at  once  touching 
and  comic  added  to  its  gayety. 

Lipp-Lapp  was  a  great  pet  of  Xavier's,  and  the 
honest  chimpanzee  always  took  great  delight  in  serving 
him  at  table.  Not  seeing  him  in  his  accustomed  place, 
he  showed  the  utmost  vexation.  His  eyes  were  anx- 
iously fixed  upon  the  door.  Seeing,  however,  that  dinnc- 
was  going  on  without  Xavier,  he  was  determined  to 
perform  his  ofhce,  notwithstanding.  He  placed  a  share 
of  all  the  viands  before  the  empty  chair,  and  changed 
the  plates  with  as  much  care  as  if  his  young  master  had 
really  partaken  of  all  these  good  things.  As  time 
passed,  however,  Lipp-Lapp  became  sadder  and  sadder, 
and  at  the  dessert  his  face  was  the  picture  of  misery. 
All  at  once,  when  the  coffee  was  being  served,  the  chim- 
panzee gave  a  little  cry  of  joy,  and  rushed  towards  the 
door,  opening  from  the  dining-room  to  the  antechamber. 

He  heard  his  young  master's  step. 

But  Xavier  did  not  appear. 

Lipp-Lapp's  instinct  had  not  deceived  him.  Xavier 
had  just  passed  up  stairs.  Instead  <f(  entering  the 
dining-room,  he  had  gone  at  once  to  his  own  apartment. 

The  little  party,  meanwhile,  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Sabine,  who  could  read  her  father's  thoughts, 
saw  that  he  was  deeply  grieved.  She  w«!nt  to  the  piano, 
hoping  by  music  to  chase  away  his  gloomy  thoughts. 


■^ 


I  reproachfully,  '*  al- 

said    M.    Pomereul 

hand,  Sabine  to  the 
ture  father-in-law. 

ras  cheerful,  spite  of 
lereul  himself  gave 
nt  at  once  touching 

Xavier's,  and  the 
It  delight  in  serving 
s  accustomed  place, 
His  eyes  were  anx- 
tiowever,  that  dinne'- 
was  determined   to 

He  placed  a  share 
chair,  and  changed 
s  young  master  had 

things.  As  time 
:  sadder  and  sadder, 
J  picture  of  misery, 
ng  served,  the  chim- 
rushed  towards  the 
to  the  antechamber. 


eived  him.  Xavier 
ad  <f(  entering  the 
I  his  own  apartment, 
ned  to  the  drawing- 
r  father's  thoughts, 
ie  w(!nt  to  the  piano, 
s  gloomy  thoughts. 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


23 


Benedict  turned  the  pages,  not  so  much  because  she  re- 
quired this  service,  for  Sabine  ,  'lyed  well  without  music, 
but  simply  to  be  near  her,  and  kcive  Sulpice  and  his 
father  to  converse  the  more  freely.  They  sat,  in  fact,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  apartment. 

"  Father,"  said  Sulpice,  "  you  seem  to  take  Xavier's 
want  of  punctuality  ve/;<  much  to  heart." 

"Yes,"  said  M.  Pomereul,  "  in  the  first  place  because  it 
is  a  want  of  respect.  In  the  second,  because  it  is  one 
step  further  in  the  course  he  has  pursued  for  five  years. 
I  will  not  deny  that  your  brother  is  a  constant  source  of 
grief  to  me." 

"  He  will  do  better,  father,"  said  Sulpice,  "  he  is  so 
young." 

"So  young,"  said  Pomereul,  "and  can  you  too  offer 
such  an  excuse  for  him  ?  Why,  his  very  youth  condemns 
him.  At  twenty-three  he  neglects  every  duty;  he  has  no 
other  pleasures,  but  foolish  extravagance  and  excess,  he 
lives  his  whole  life  in  idle  or  vicious  society.  He  de- 
spises his  home,  and  prefers  his  club  or  the  green-room 
of  theatres.  Why  do  you  defend  him,  Sulpice,  when 
you  should  be  the  first  to  blame  ?" 

"  I  do  blame  him,"  said  Sulpice,  "  but  I  would  not 
that  his  faults  should  bring  down  on  him  merited  but 
perhaps  excessive  severity.  Besides  he  is  my  brother, 
I  might  almost  say  my  son.  I  first  taught  him  the 
truths  of  faith.  I  too  suffer  and  am  unhappy  on  his 
account,  but  I  know  that  the  lost  sheep  are  often  found, 
and  I  trust  that  the  prodigal  son  will  return  to  the  fire- 
side of  home." 

"What  have  Heft  undone  for  that  ungrateful  boy?" 
said  Pomereul,  scarcely  heeding  Sulpice's  con^ling 
words.  "  I  readily  gratified  his  every  wish.  His  apart- 
ments are  more  luxurious,  his  equipages  more  sumptuous 
than  mine.    He  is  fond  of  horses,  and  I  gave  him  a  stable 


"1  '  r 
'HI 


/ 


24 


IDOLS. 


■ 


fit  for  a  prince.  I  thought  each  sacrifice  I  made  for  htm 
would  attach  him  more  and  more  to  me.  And  now,  to 
my  bitter  sorrow,  I  perceive  that  if  he  is  dutiful  and 
affectionate  for  a  few  days,  it  is  only  that  he  may  profit 
by  my  joy  to  get  some  thousands  of  francs  from  me. 
At  first  I  gave  him  a  fixed  allowance,  and  he  owed  every 
one.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  they  all  drew  upon  me.  I 
scolded  him,  but  I  paid  his  debts.  It  has  been  the  same 
every  time.  I  am  tired  now  of  being  banker  to  an  idle 
boy,  whose  sole  occupation  is  to  discuss  the  pattern  of  a 
waistcoat  or  the  tying  of  a  cravat,  who  brings  into  my 
house  the  language  of  a  horse-jockey  and  the  manners 
of  the  Caf^  Anglais." 

"  Father,"  said  Sulpice,  with  great  tenderness,  "  I  do 
not  deny  that  you  have  cause  for  g^ief ;  the  facts  suffice, 
and  like  you  I  see  that  Xavier  is  upon  the  downward 
path  which  leads  to  ruin.  Now,  do  not  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  I  wish  to  cast  any  blame  upon  you.  If 
your  affection  exceeded  your  prudence,  far  be  it  from  me 
to  criticise  your  actions.  But,  perhaps,  you  were  too 
generous. 

"Most  assuredly  I  was,"  said  M.  Pomereul;  "of 
course  you  are  right.  When  he,  a  boy  of  eighteen, 
finished  his  studies,  I  shoulcl  have  said  to  him,  'Take 
your  turn  at  the  hammer  and  chisel,  learn  each  branch 
of  the  trade,  as  I  did.  You  are  to  succeed  me.  I  do  not 
want  the  firm  of  Pomereul  to  change  its  name.'  I  yield- 
ed partly  through  affection,  partly  through  vanity,  to 
Xavier's  desires.  I  often  smiled  at  sight  of  the  hand- 
some, witty  boy,  extravagant,  perhaps,  and  inclined  to 
swagger  a  little.  Ah!  what  a  mistake.  Scarce  had  he 
set  foot  in  the  clubs,  than  the  clubs  took  him  from  me. 
He  became  a  spendthrift,  an  idler,  a  coxcomb,  a  trinity 
of  names  which  form  the  same  person,  an  idle  and 
prodigal  being,  the  offshoot  of  an  ffeU  society.     I  saw 


I 


■M 


crifice  I  made  for  htm 

to  me.     And  now,  to 

if  he  is  dutiful  and 

ily  that  he  may  profit 

s  of  francs  from  me. 

ce,  and  he  owed  every 

all  drew  upon  me.     I 

It  has  been  the  same 

sing  banker  to  an  idle 

iscuss  the  pattern  of  a 

,  who  brings  into  my 

key  and  the  manners 

;at  tenderness,  "I  do 
frief ;  the  facts  suffice, 
upon  the  downward 
do  not  suppose  for  a 
blame  upon  you.  If 
ince,  far  be  it  from  me 
srhaps,  you  were  too 

M.  Pomereul;  "of 
:,  a  boy  of  eighteen, 
:  said  to  him,  'Take 
icl,  learn  each  branch 
(ucceed  me.  I  do  not 
l^e  its  name.'  I  yield- 
y  through  vanity,  to 
t  sight  of  the  hand- 
liaps,  and  inclined  to 
take.  Scarce  had  he 
)s  took  him  from  me. 

a  coxcomb,  a  trinity 
person,  an  idle  and 
effete  society.     I  saw 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


as 


the  danger,  and  would  have  averted  it.  It  was  too  late 
Xavier  had  lost  among  his  Soon  companions  that  re- 
spect  for  me,  that  deference  and  affection,  which  are  only 
cultivated  at  the  home  hearth.  My  remonstrances  only 
estranged  him;  he  answered  me  sharply,  and  left  me 
irntated  and  resentful.  I  loved  him,  and  too  often  called 
him  back  to  comply  with  his  request.  This  has  con- 
tinued for  five  years.  I  repeat  that  I  am  tired  of  humor- 
mg  this  elegant  idler.  I  feel  that  I  am  not  justified  in 
paying  the  expenses  of  an  ungrateful  boy,  who  takes  me 
to  be  his  dupe.     Henceforth,  the  bank  is  closed  " 

"  Let  it  be  so,"  said  Sulpice,  "  but  the  father  must  open 
his  arms.  *^ 

"To  the  repentant  son,  most  certainly,"  said  M. 
Pomereul.  "But  you  cannot  know,  Sulpice,  what  I 
suffer  from  his  conduct  to-day  when  I  compare  him 
with  Benedict.  My  true  son  is  that  orphan  boy,  who 
calls  me  father,  and  who  finds  genius  and  industry 
sufficient  capital,  without  seeking  to  add  money  there- 
unto.  Xavier's  absence  to-night  was  the  drop  which 
made  my  cup  of  bitterness  overflow.  To-morrow  Xavier 
must  go  to  work,  and  take  direction  of  the  factory  under 
my  superintendence." 

"Good,"  said  Sulpice;  "I  approve  of  your  resolution 
to  cut  the  evil  short.  A  time  may  come  when  it  will  be 
no  longer  possible.  Only,  I  beg  of  you,  be  gentle  with 
him.  His  heart  is  not  bad.  His  friends  are  all  attached 
to  him.  Sabine  loves  him  with  all  the  fervor  of  her 
innocent  heart,  and  I  too,  father,  love  Xavier  with  the 
love  that  mothers  give  to  afflicted  children.  If  I  deplore 
his  faults.  I  hope  to  see  him  conquer  them  and  efface 
their  traces.  Vice  fills  me  with  horror,  but  vicious  men 
sadden  me.  Like  Christ  I  have  come  into  the  ministry, 
not  to  bring  the  just  but  sinners  to  repentance.  We 
must  not  deceive  ourselves.    Xavier  is  the  Benjamin  of 


/ 


26 


IDOLS. 


the  family,  and  if  he  has  been  hitherto  unworthy  of  a 
partiality  in  which  we  all  had  our  share,  I  am  sure 
that  sooner  or  later  he  will  deserve  it." 

"  God  grant  it,"  said  Pomereul. 

"  Promise  me,  dear  father,  to  speak  mildly  to  him,"  said 
Sulpice. 

"Mildly,"  said  Pomereul,  "but  firmly." 
^^  "  All  will  be  well  then,  believe  me,"  said  the  priest; 
"and  now,  to  celebrate  this  betrothal  day  with  something 
a  little  less  dismal,  listen  to  Sabine's  music  which  is 
almost  as  fine  as  Benedict's  sculpture." 

The  young  girl  had  just  left  the  piano,  but  she  took  her 
seat  at  the  organ,  and  played  one  of  those  marvellous 
sacred  melodies,  the  O  /esu,  of  Haydn.  This  sublime 
prayer  of  supplication,  in  which  the  man's  cry  of 
agony  is  followed  by  the  child's  caressing  entreaty,  was 
interpreted  by  Sabine  with  rare  depth  and  tenderness. 
Few  could  perform  this  piece  as  she  did,  and  Benedict 
closmg  his  eyes,  beheld  above  him  the  groined  arches  of 
a  chapel,  heard  a  mighty  organ  taking  on  its  wingid 
notes  the  prayers  of  the  kneeling  multitude.  When  he 
opened  them,  he  caught  such  a  look  of  inspiration  upon 
Sabme's  face  that  he  cried  out  to  her  in  a  subdued 
voice, 

"Stay  like  that  for  one  minute  more.  Next  year  I 
will  send  a  Saint  Cecilia  to  the  Salon." 

When  the  last  notes  of  the  music  had  died  away,  Ben- 
edict rose  to  take  his  leave.  He  shook  hands  with  M 
Pomereul  and  Sulpice,  took  a  flower  which  Sabine 
pffered  him,  and  left  the  house,  and  the  family,  whom 
he  thenceforth  considered  as  his  own. 

"Till  to-morrow,"  Pomereul  had  said  to  him;  "hence- 
forth your  place  will  be  set  at  the  table  every  day." 

When  the  young  artist  had  gone,  Sabine  said  good 
night  to  her  father. 


erto  unworthy  of  a 
r  share,  I  am  sure 


mildly  to  him,"  said 

nly." 

e,"  said  the  priest; 

day  with  something 

e's  music  which  is 

e." 

ino,  but  she  took  her 

}f  those  marvellous 

ydn.    This  sublime 

the  man's  cry  of 
;ssing  entreaty,  was 
pth  and  tenderness. 
e  did,  and  Benedict 
[le  groined  arches  of 
king  on  its  winged 
multitude.    When  he 

of  inspiration  upon 
her  in  a  subdued 

lore.     Next  year  I 

lad  died  away,  Ben- 
took  hands  with  M. 
>wer  which  Sabine 
the  family,  whom 

laid  to  him;  "  hence- 
|ble  every  day." 
Sabine  said  good 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


27 


"  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  work  late,"  she  said. 

"  Only  to  write  a  letter,  dear  child,"  he  answered. 

"I  understand,"  said  Sulpice,  "you  are  going  to  wait 
for  Xavier." 

"  Yes,  he  must  hear  my  decision  to-night." 

"  Remember  your  promise." 

"  Have  no  fear,  Sulpice.     Rest  in  peace  my  good  son!" 

The  young  priest  went  up  to  the  top  floor,  where  his 
room  was  situated. 

Sabine  went  to  her  little  apartment,  just  between  her 
father's  and  Xavier's. 

The  young  girl,  who  had  begged  her  father  to  retire 
early,  seated  herself  at  a  table,  and  began  to  write  with 
the  rapidity  of  inspiration  and  of  joy. 

Meanwhile  M.  Pomereul  rang  for  Baptiste. 

"  Let  me  know  when  M.  Xavier  comes  in,"  he  said 
briefly. 

"  M.  Xavier  has  been  in  more  than  an  hour,"  said  the 
man. 

"Then  ask  him  to  come  to  my  study." 

A  moment  more,  and  Xavier  was  face  to  face  with  his 
father. 

His  countenance  bore  traces  of  late  hours  and  of 
premature  excess;  his  eyes  were  dim,  his  lips  colorless, 
his  usually  careful  dress  was  disordered,  his  hands 
trembling  with  nervous  excitement. 

"  Why  did  you  not  appear  at  dinner  ?"  said  his  father. 

The  young  man  hung  his  head,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Where  were  you  ?" 

"At  the  club." 

"  So  you  preferred  the  society  of  your  friends  to  ours  ?" 

"  I  have  not  dined,"  said  Xavier,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  What  were  you  doing  then  >" 

"  I  was  playing." 

"You  were  playing,  and  you  lost,  I  suppose?" 


i.:r 

i 


'liii' 


-V*,i--S«*!ka«i 


/ 


28 


IDOLS. 


"Host." 

"  A  large  sum  ?" 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  How  much  ?" 

"  Forty  thousand  francs." 

"  Your  gaming  purse  is  large  then  ?" 

"  No.     I  played  on  my  word." 

"Indeed.  So  there  are  people  willing  to  risk  forty 
thousand  francs  on  your  word.  That  shows  considerable 
confidence  in  your  honor." 

"And  my  honesty." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  It  proves  that  if  I  make  debts  I  pay  them;  if  I  con- 
tract a  loan  I  make  it  good." 

"  With  what  ?"  said  M.  Pomereul. 

"  With — well  with  the  money  you  are  good  enough  to 
give  me." 

"  Our  interview  is  going  to  be  longer  then  than  I  ex- 
pected," said  the  father.  "  I  intended  to  let  you  stand 
like  a  criminal  before  his  judge,  but  I  pity  your  evident 
prostration,  so  take  a  seat  and  listen  to  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  Xavier  had  ever  heard  his  father 
speak  to  him  with  such  icy  coldness.  He  lost  the  little 
assurance  he  had  on  entering,  and  almost  fell  into  an 
arm-chair. 

"  When  I  married  your  mother,"  began  M.  Pomereul, 
"she  was  poor;  I  was  earning  my  living  by  my  trade, 
and  in  those  evil  days  we  learned  to  know  and  appreci- 
ate each  other.  When  fortune  came,  it  found  us  pre- 
pared to  encounter  her  perils.  Your  mother  remained 
what  she  had  ever  been — ^a  model  of  a  woman  and  a 
wife.  If  she  possessed  jewels  it  was  simply  because  it 
pleased  me  to  bestow  them.  She  never  asked  for  them, 
and  was  never  vain  of  them.  She  brought  you  children 
up  without  ever  ceasing  to  be  an  accomplished  woman, 


1?" 

ivilling  to  risk  forty 
It  shows  considerable 


pay  them;  if  I  con- 


I  are  good  enough  to 

>nger  then  than  I  ex- 
ded  to  let  you  stand 

I I  pity  your  evident 
n  to  me." 

:ver  heard  his  father 
is.  He  lost  the  little 
I  almost  fell  into  an 

began  M.  Pomereul, 
'  living  by  my  trade, 

0  know  and  appreci- 
me,  it  found  us  pre- 
lur  mother  remained 

1  of  a  woman  and  a 
as  simply  because  it 
lever  asked  for  them, 
t)rought  you  children 
iccomplished  woman, 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


y!:j(Ky..-'4k;>gs%a 


39 


!*ai)  "iSiiBsffij 


a  charming  and  lovable  companion  to  me.  She  watched 
over  you  as  long  as  God  spared  ner,  and  one  day  she 
left  me  alone.  Yes,  alone  ;  for  though  she  left  me  you 
threft,  and  you  fill  a  great  part  of  my  heart,  there  is  still 
a  large  portion  which  must  remain  forever  widowed.  I 
was  true  to  that  dear  memory,  I  devoted  myself  to  your 
education  and  that  of  Sulpice.  You  both  received  the 
same  lessons,  and  from  the  same  professors.  Sulpice,  it 
is  true,  had  been  longer  under  your  mother's  care,  and 
perhaps  inherited  more  of  her  angelic  character.  Scarce- 
ly was  he  of  an  age  to  think  when  he  became  serious ; 
scarcely  was  it  time  for  him  to  choose  a  profession  when 
he  chose  the  perpetual  sacrifice  of  self,  the  abnegation 
of  his  whole  life.  He  became  a  priest,  and  is  already  an 
apostle.  The  seminary  took  him  from  me,  you  alone  re- 
mained. You  alone  were  to  live  the  life  of  the  world, 
and  sustain  the  family  name  among  respectable  people. 
If  that  does  not  excuse  my  weakness,  it  at  least  explains 
it.  For  awhile  I  thought  your  folly  was  but  the  fleeting 
effervescence  of  youth ;  I  did  not  put  you  under  the  yoke 
of  labor  soon  enough,  and  every  day  I  have  felt  that 
you  are  going  farther  and  farther  away  from  me." 

"  Father—" 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me,  you  will  answer  later.  Your 
superfluous  wants  grev.-  in  proportion  as  they  were  satis- 
fied. Yo..  took  me  upon  the  weak  side  of  affection  and 
paternal  vanity,  and  since  then  I  have  been  nothing  more 
to  you  than  the  purveyor  of  your  wants,  aye,  the  <uxom- 
plice  of  your  faults.  But  one  can  stop  anywhere,  even  on 
the  decline  of  a  hilL  I  see  the  abyss,  I  would  escape  it, 
and  I  feel  you  are  rushing  into  it  I  have  purchased  your 
horses,  paid  your  debts,  and  it  is  enough.  The  banker 
is  no  more.  The  father  can  be  found  at  your  pleasure; 
all  that  is  necessary  is  a  change  of  life.  But  I  will  not 
be  content  with  promises.    I  want  facts." 


:!!  iS 


/ 


30 


IDOLS. 


"  Command  me,  father,"  said  Xavier,  dejectedly. 

"  You  have  incurred  other  debts  ?" 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  Their  total  amount  is — " 

"  About  twenty  thousand  francs." 

" Let  us  add  five  for  the  about"  said  Pomereul,  mark 
ing  the  figures  on  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"  I  gave  orders  to  an  upholsterer  to  have  my  apart- 
ments refitted  and  my  furniture  renewed." 

"  Furniture  only  five  years  in  use  ?  Well,  I  can  coun- 
termand the  order,  and  if  need  be  indemnify  the  uphol- 
sterer. As  for  the  thirty  thousand  francs  due  tc  other 
creditors,  the  sale  of  your  stable  will  suffice  fo»-  that." 

"  What,  sell  my  horses  ?"  cried  Xavier. 

"  Yes,  at  the  Tattersall  next  week." 

"But  they  will  say  I  am  ruined." 

"  I  prefer  that  to  being  ruined  myself." 

"And  to-day's  debt?"  cried  Xavier,  anxiously. 

"  You  must  make  some  arrangement  about  it." 

"Make  arrangements  for  a  gambling  debt,  father? 
Can  you  dream  of  such  a  thing?  Why,  it  is  sacred.  My 
honor  is  at  stake." 

" Sacred  debt,  honor !"  cried  M.  Pomereul ;  "truly  you 
have  a  singular  way  of  altering  the  meaning  of  words. 
Why,  I  ask  you,  is  a  gambling  debt  nwre  sacred  than 
any  other?  Is  it  because  gambling  is  in  itself  a  vice? 
For  my  part,  sir,  I  hold  that  debt  truly  sacred  which  I 
incur  towards  a  tradesman  struggling  for  his  livelihood, 
or  a  workman  living  by  his  salary.  By  failing  to  pay 
such  a  debt  you  drive  the  one  to  insolvency,  the  other  to 
*  the  street.  It  is  a  more  serious  matter  than  to  disap- 
point some  hot-headed  boy,  who  stakes  at  the  card-table 
a  portion  of  his  inheritance.  Honor !  Why  honor  is  to 
fulfil  the  duties  imposed  upon  us  by  society  and  by  oui 


cr,  dejectedly. 


id  Pomereul,  mark- 

r  to  have  my  apart- 
wed." 

?    Well,  I  can  coun- 
idemnify  the  uphol- 
francs  due  tc  other 
suffice  £o.'  that" 
vier. 


self." 

r,  anxiously. 

!nt  about  it." 

bling  debt,  father? 

hy,  it  is  sacred.    My 

omereul ;  "  truly  you 
!  meaning  of  words. 
)t  mere  sacred  than 
r  is  in  itself  a  vice? 
truly  sacred  which  I 
ig  for  his  livelihood, 
.  By  failing  to  pay 
olvency,  the  other  to 
tatter  than  to  disap- 
kes  at  the  card-table 
r !  Why  honor  is  to 
y  society  and  by  out 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


31 


conscience.  For  the  soldier,  it  consists  in  defending  his 
flag  at  the  cost  of  his  life  ;  for  the  magistrate,  in  unswerv- 
ing integrity;  for  the  artist  or  man  of  letters,  in  em- 
ploying his  Ulents  to  the  best  advantage  ;  for  the  mer- 
chant, in  preserving  his  credit ;  for  the  son,  in  showing 
his  gratitude  to  his  parents.  Honor  !  I  can  speak  of  it, 
sir,  for  I  have  kept  my  own.  But  I  forbid  you  to  men- 
tion the  word  in  connection  with  a  gambling  debt.  And 
as  for  the  law,  it  considers  them  so  sacred  that  it  takes 
no  cognizance  of  them." 

"  Father,  would  you  advise  me  to—" 

"I  advise  nothing.  I  simply  say  that  I  will  not  pay 
this  debt." 

"  Then,  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"  Make  an  arrangement  with  this  creditor,  as  you  have 
made  with  many  others.  You  must  ask  for  an  extension 
of  time,  which  will  doubtless  be  granted  you.  You  do 
not  know,  for  you  take  no  interest  in  family  affairs,  that 
Sabine  was  betrothed  to-day  to-  Benedict  Fougerais.  I 
do  not  think  it  right  to  sacrifice  her  share  and  that  of 
Sulpice  to  your  extravagance.  I  will  not  throw  their 
fortune  into  the  pit  you  dig  for  it.  To-morrow  you  will 
take  control  of  the  factory,  and  will  receive  a  salary  of 
twelve  thousand  francs  a  year.  By  means  of  that  sum 
you  will  pay  this  gaming  debt" 

"  Father,"  said  Xavier,  rising,  his  face  livid,  his  limbs 
failing  under  him,  "you  will  not  compel  me  to  do  this, 
to  admit  my  poverty,  to  ask  foi%  delay !  Give  me  this 
forty  thousand  francs,  and  after  that  refuse  what  you 
will.  Do  not  reduce  me  to  shame  and  despair.  What 
are  forty  thousand  francs  to  you  ?" 

"  Such  a  sum  represents  the  careful  savings  of  several 
families,"  said  the  father.  "Forty  thousand  francs! 
How  many  small  tradesmen  would  it  save  from  ruin, 


/ 


33 


IDOLS. 


how  many  people  from  despair.  I  tell  you  plainly  you 
have  spent  more  than  your  share  of  the  inheritance.  The 
rest  belongs  to  Sabine  and  Sulpice." 

"What  use  is  such  a  fortune  to  my  brother,"  cried 
Xavier,  "  who  lives  in  a  garret,  goes  barefoot  from  choice, 
and  feeds  on  bread-and-water?" 

"You  forget  the  poor,  sir." 

"  Oh,  it  is  horrible,  atrocious  !"  cried  the  young  man. 
"  I  am  willing  to  amend,  to  give  up  everything,  even  to 
go  into  the  factory,  and  be  content  with  twelve  thousand 
francs  a  year.  But  pay  my  debt,  father,  pay  my  debt. 
It  must  be  paid,  it  must,  do  you  see.  I  want  your  word 
for  it,  your  promise.  There  is  gold  in  that  safe.  Give 
me  some  of  it  till  I  pay,  till  I  pay." 

"  I  have  said  no,"  said  the  merchant  struggling  to 
overcome  the  impression  which  Xavier's  grief  made  upon 
him. 

"  Take  care,  father,  take  care!"  said  Xavier,  wildly,  and 
as  he  spoke  approaching  his  father's  desk. 

"Wretch,  do  you  threaten  me?"  said  M.  Pomereul 
rising. 

Just  as  the  father  and  son  stood  thus  face  to  face,  the 
one  livid  with  rage,  the  other  justly  indignant,  the  study 
door  was  suddenly  opened  and  Sabine,  with  a  cry  of 
horror,  rushed  between  them.  Xavier  pushed  her  away, 
and  the  young  girl  weeping  threw  her  arms  around  her 
father's  neck.  He  gently  disengaged  himself,  saying, 
"  Leave  us,  dear  child^leave  us,  I  beg  of  you;  my  dis- 
agreement with  your  brother  is  painful,  it  is  true,  but  it 
need  not  alarm  you." 

"O  Xavier!"  cried  Sabine  turning  to  her  brother,  *'do 
not  sadden  by  a  violent  scene  this  day  of  my  betrothal 
Beg  father's  pardon,  for  you  must  be  wrong.  He  is 
goodness  itself." 

Xavier  remained  silent  and  morose. 


^**«m 


tell  you  plainly  you 
he  inheritance.    The 

my  brother,"  cried 
tarefoot  from  choice, 


ied  the  young  man. 

everything,  even  to 

rith  twelve  thousand 

father,  pay  my  debt. 

I  want  your  word 

in  that  safe.    Give 

hant  struggling  to 
er's  grief  made  upon 

1  Xavier,  wildly,  and 
i  desk, 
said  M.  Pomereul 

hus  face  to  face,  the 
indignant,  the  study 
ibine,  with  a  cry  of 
er  pushed  her  away, 
ler  arms  around  her 
;ed  himself,  saying, 
3eg  of  you;  my  dis- 
iful,  it  is  true,  but  it 

to  her  brother,  *'do 

lay  of  my  betrothal 

be  wFoog.     He  is 


A  PRODIGAL  SON. 


33 


"  It  is  my  turn  to  command,  Sabine,"  said  the  father 
gravely,  "go  to  rest  and  come  to  me  early.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Sabine  addressed  a  last  entreaty  to  her  brother,  who 
looked  at  her  with  a  sullen  and  lowering  eye,  then  em- 
bracing her  father  she  went  away. 

"  You  refuse  me,"  said  Xavier,  "  you  finally  refuse  me  ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  his  father. 

"  Then,"  cried  the  young  man  in  a  despairing  tone,  "  it 
is  your  doing  if  misfortune  comes  upon  this  house." 


ua 


*.'i^%i 


/ 


■ 


34  IDOLS. 


CHAPTER  III. 
The  Knights  of  the  Black  Cap. 

In  the  very  heart  of  Paris,  near  the  quays  and  bordering 
upon  the  river,  in  thr  broad  light  of  day  and  in  a  pleasant 
neighborhood  is  a  street  or  rather  a  narrow  lane,  through 
the  centre  of  which  runs  a  muddy  stream  and  where 
high  dark  walls  shut  out  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  Rue 
Git-le-Coeur,  one  of  the  oldest  streets  in  that  ancient 
Paris  which  has  disappeared  under  the  progress  of 
modern  improvements,  remained  what  it  was  in  the  mid- 
dle ages.  But  little  more  ::nd  it  would  reuuire  to  have 
an  iron  chain  stretched  at  either  extremity  of  it,  which 
together  with  the  watch  might  enable  honest  citizens  of 
Paris  to  sleep  in  peace. 

About  half  way  down  this  street,  some  four  years 
before  this  story  opens,  stood  a  squalid  shop,  full  of  rub- 
bish, rusty  iron,  broken  or  mended  china,  old  clothes, 
curtains  ready  to  fall  into  dust,  copper  vessels  covered 
with  verdigris,  instruments  M  all  trades  which  men 
may  lawfully  and  openly  pursue. 

We  say  lawfully  and  openly,  for  in  dark  corners  of  the 
shop  were  huge  bunches  of  keys  of  every  conceivable 
form,  finely  pointed  chisels,  files  of  exquisite  perfection, 
pincers  that  were  ma^erpieces  in  their  kind,  in  fine,  a 
whole  collection  of  disavowed  articles  or  articles  which 
were  seldom  called  for  in  any  other  language  than  that 
of  slang. 

Father  Methusalem,  who  owed  his  surname  to  his  in- 
definite age,  was,  within  the  memory  of  a  whole  genera- 
tion of  men,  already  old  when  he  became  proprietor.of 
this  shop  and  all  its  belongings.     These  belongings,  be- 


M'l^,d^».i...i!!^\l'UmM!^i,U4i*rjmli.it:^-4^ik 


kCK  Cap. 

[uays  and  bordering 
ay  and  in  a  pleasant 
irrow  lane,  through 
stream  and  where 
the  sun.  The  Rue 
!ts  in  that  ancient 
r  the  progress  of 
It  it  was  in  the  mid- 
uld  reuuire  to  have 
tremity  of  it,  which 
e  honest  citizens  of 

t,  some  four  years 
id  shop,  full  of  rub- 
china,  old  clothes, 
iper  vessels  covered 
trades  which  men 

dark  corners  of  the 
I  every  conceivable 
xquisite  perfection, 
lieir  kind,  in  fine,  a 
!s  or  articles  which 
language  than  that 

>  surname  to  his  in- 

of  a  whole  genera- 

;came  proprietor.of 

lese  belonging[S,  be- 


THE    KNIGHTS   OK  THE  BLACK  CAP. 


3S 


ginning  by  a  court  dark  as  Erebus,  gloomy  as  a  prison 
gate,  ended  in  a  building  for  the  construction  of  which 
Father  Methusalem  had  made  use  of  the  most  hetero- 
geneous  elements.  Wood  and  mortar  had  the  principal 
share  in  it.  The  doors  and  windows  had  neither  form, 
proportion,  nor  equilibrium.  Several  panes  in  the  win< 
dow  were  supplied  by  greasy  paper;  hinges  creaked, 
window  bolts  had  ceased  to  work,  the  ancient  stove 
smoked,  and  yet  there  appeared  in  white  letters  on  a 
black  board,  placed  just  above  the  entrance  door,  the 
sign,  Pension  Bouroeoise.  These  words  set  us  thinking. 
What  sort  of  kitchen  could  there  be  in  the  underground 
depths  of  this  extraordinary  structure  ?  Who  could  be 
the  customers  of  such  a  faMe  a'hote  t 

In  the  middle  of  a  large  room  stood  a  deal  table, 
stained  with  wine  and  gravy,  cut  and  hacked  by  the 
knives  of  the  boarders,  and  set  at  the  time  when  we 
entered  with  chipped  plates,  wooden  spoons  and  iron 
forks.  There  were  no  knives,  as  the  guests  usually 
brought  their  own.  Pewter  mugs  stood  before  each 
plate.  Benches  served  for  seats.  There  was  but  one 
chair  in  the  room;  it  marked  the  place  reserved  for 
Father  Methusalem. 

A  dark,  winding  staircase  with  rickety  steps  led  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  cellar  triansformed  into  a  kitchen. 
Upon  a  long  range  or  furnace,  in  stew-pans  as  large  as 
boilers,  over  a  hot  fire  boiled  ^  strange  mixture,  the 
olla  podrida  daily  served  up  to  rte  boarders;  it  was  in 
fact  the  invariable  dish.  In  the  steaming  mess  were  rab- 
bits, bones  of  mutton,  chunks  of  beef,  the  tails  of  red 
herrings,  sheeps*  tails,  remnants  of  calves'  heads,  beets, 
onions  and  lobster  claws.  A  great  lump  of  grease  and 
several  cloves  of  garlic  gave  all  these  components  a  cer- 
tain similarity  of  taste.  Some  fine  chickens,  ready  for 
broiling,  vear  cutlets  and  beefsteaks  laid  out  upon  the 


''i'M^M.i,>^mS^^^  ""W"'me^^ 


/ 


p- 


I 


$0  IDOLS. 

table  proved  that  this  establishment  was  capable  of  ris< 
ing  to  the  level  of  circumstances.  Beside  the  heavy, 
todden-looking  potato-salud  was  delicate  lettuce  or 
fresh  red  cabbage;  close  to  the  livid  cheese,  the  odor  of 
which,  sui gtHeris,  betrayed  its  quality,  a  superb  basket  of 
fruit  awaited  those  who  were  equal  to  the  expense  of  a 
dainty  meal. 

Among  the  tables,  pots  and  kettles  moved  an  extraor- 
dinary figure  who  seemed  in  perfect  accordance  with  her 
sinister  surroundings.  It  was  a  woman  scarcely  three 
feet  high  and  apparently  some  fifty  odd  years  of  age. 
Her  head  was  disproportionately  iarge,  her  face  sullen 
;i».'  dark  in  expression,  enlivened  ever  and  anon  by  a 
gleam  of  cold  malice.  Her  grey  hair,  too  abundant  to 
be  held  in  check  by  the  red  plaid  handkerchief  which 
covered  it,  hung  loose  upon  her  shoulders;  in  her  great 
ears,  which  stood  far  out  from  her  head,  she  wore  a  pair 
of  ear>rings,  such  as  might  have  belonged  to  some  Nor- 
man peasant  and  so  long  that  they  touched  her  shoul- 
ders. The  upper  portion  of  this  singular  creature  was  of 
the  usual  proportions  of  a  woman,  but  her  lower  limbs 
were  unnaturally  small.  She  had  the  appearance  of  a 
human  trunk  attached  to  a  pair  of  broad  flat  feet.  This 
horribly  deformed  being  was  dressed  in  a  Brandenburg 
or  hussar  jacket,  a  faded  blue  skirt  and  shoes  made  from 
a  pair  of  boots  whence  the  uppers  had  been  cut  off. 

How  Methusalem  and  this  dwarfish  creature  had  be- 
come acquainted,  and  why  this  singular  pair,  similar  in 
vice,  continued  to  remain  together  no  one  could  tell.  If 
Methusalem  were  the  head  of  the  house.  La  Naine  •  was 
undoubtedly  its  right  arm,  and  her  influence  upon  the 
dealer  in  questionable  commodities  was  very  great. 

The  Naine  was  Methusalem's  factotum.    She  went  to 


*  Naine  signifies  a  fenuJc  dwart. 


was  capable  of  ris- 
Beside  the  heavy, 
lelicate  lettuce  or 
cheese,  the  odor  of 
,  a  superb  basket  of 
to  the  expense  of  a 

i  moved  an  extraor- 
accordance  with  her 
man  scarcely  three 
r  odd  years  of  age. 
rge,  her  face  sullen 
tver  and  anon  by  a 
i.',  too  abundant  to 
handkerchief  which 
ilJers;  in  her  great 
sad,  she  wore  a  pair 
onged  to  some  Nor- 
touched  her  shoul- 
ular  creature  was  of 
»ut  her  lower  limbs 
he  appearance  of  a 
road  flat  feet.     This 
in  a  Brandenburg 
nd  shoes  made  from 
d  been  cut  off. 
sh  creature  had  be- 
ular  pair,  similar  in 
o  one  could  tell.    If 
use,  La  Naine  *  was 
influence  upon  the 
ras  very  great, 
otum.    She  went  to 


THE   KNIGHTS  OF  THE   BLACK  CAP. 


37 


market  every  day  and  made  all  necessary  purchases; 
and  also  to  the  lowest  restaurants,  buying  up  at  nominal 
prices  the  half  s  ,)oiled  remnants.  A  tin  box  received 
fish,  meat  and  vegetables  all  in  one,  an  earthenware  jar, 
the  coffee  grains,  tea-leaves,  and  crusts  of  bread,  which 
were  used  for  various  culinary  purposes. 

Meanwhile  Methusalem  was  taken  up  with  commercial 
affairs;  he  kept  the  shop,  and  waited  upon  customers. 
He  had  customers  of  two  sorts,  those  who  needed  tools, 
who  wanted  to  hire  a  complete  disguise  for  a  day  or  a 
week,  and  those  who  wished  to  engage  a  room  or  take 
some  meals  at  the  Pension  Bourgeoise.  The  ordinary 
meal  cost  ten  sous.  It  comprise^  the  daily  dish,  bre<id 
at  discretion,  a  small  bottle  of  wine  ai;  J  a  cup  of  co£Fee. 
Dinners  i  la  cartt  were  such  as  might  be  provided  at  a 
second-class  restaurant. 

A  worn-out  clock,  of  which  the  cuckoo  disdained  to 
appear,  struck  out  six.  The  Naine  immediately  seized  a 
spoon  of  unusual  dimensions,  and  plunging  it  into  the 
pot  dipped  up  the  soup.  After  which,  taking  the  earth- 
enware tureen  by  both  handles,  she  mounted  the  8<.airs 
with  an  agility  surprising  in  a  being  so  deformed.  Just 
as  she  reached  the  dining-room  the  door  leading  from 
the  courtyard  opened,  and  a  dozen  or  so  of  men,  with 
Methusalem  at  their  head  entered.  Each  one  took  his 
own  place,  which  was  indicated  by  a  square  of  copper, 
marked  with  a  figure,  and  Methusalem  began  to  serve. 

"Well,  well,  boys,"  he  said  with  a  sort  of  grim  jollity, 
"how  goes  business?  Have  you  anything  to  sell  or  to 
exchange  ?  Who  wants  any  rabbit  skins,  rusty  iron,  or 
broken  glass?" 

"  I  do,"  said  a  man  of  ferocious  aspect,  who  was  ksown 
as  Rat-de-Cave.  "I  have  six  silver  forks  and  spoons 
which  Providence  has  thrown  in  my  way;  they  are  first 
class,  and  should  sell  for  twenty-three  centimes  the 


«  --^Ml*^ 


/ 


38 


IDOLS. 


gram,  but  they  might  get  one  into  trouble.  People  who 
forget  these  things  on  their  dirt-heaps,  dare  to  claim 
them  before  the  magistrates,  sometimes,  but  I'll  not 
give  them  the  chance.  Once  melted  up,  silver  never 
reappears  except  in  the  pocket.  Will  you  oblige  me  by 
making  these  into  ingots.  Father  Methusalem  ?" 

"With  pleasure,  comrade,  with  pleasure,"  said  the 
old  man,  "  but  we  must  be  quick  about  melting  it,  and 
you  about  selling  it.  Several  silver  mines  have  been  dis- 
covered near  Valparaiso,  a  pick  is  put  into  the  earth, 
and  presto,  the  metal  gleams.  So  silver  is  going  down 
in  the  Parisian  market." 
"Bah,"  said  Rat-de-Cave,  "there  is  a  tariff  for  silver." 
"  There  is  a  tariff,  true;  but  just  take  your  ingots  to 
the  mint,  my  lad,  and  see  what  price  they  will  offer  you. 
It  is  a  fine  establishment,  we  must  not  speak  ill  of  our 
neighbors;  but  suspicious,  inquisitive,  meddling;  one 
cannot  go  there  with  an  ounce  of  gold  but  they  must 
know  precisely  where  he  got  it." 

"How  much  will  you  pay  for  silver,  then,  Methu- 
salem?" asked  Rat-de-Cave. 

"Sixty-five  centimes  the  gram,"  said  Me*husalem, 
"and  I  lose  on  it,  it  is  merely  to  oblige  a  customer." 
Rat-de-Cave  shook  his  head,  incredulously. 
"And  you,  Pomme  d'Api,"  asked  Methusalem  ad- 
dressing a  boy  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  whose 
pallid,  worn  face  betrayed  an  early  acquaintance  with 
vice,  "did  you  open  many  carriage  doors  last  night,  or 
pick  up  any  cigar  ends  ?" 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  the  boy,  proudly,  "  there  was 
a  beautiful  actress;  apiece,  the  'Drame  de  la  Mis^re,' 
the  play  began  at  three  o'clock;  there  was  a  crush  and  a 
crowd,  no  one  looked  out  for  his  pocket.  But  the 
coming  out  was  best  of  all,  the  street  was  packed,  every 
one  wanted  carriages  at  the  same  time.     I  had  ten  of 


trouble.  People  who 
heaps,  dare  to  claim 
letimes,  but  I'll  not 
jlted  up,  silver  never 
ITill  you  oblige  me  by 
[ethusalem  ?" 
1  pleasure,"  said  the 
ibout  melting  it,  and 
mines  have  been  dis- 
put  into  the  earth, 
silver  is  going  down 

is  a  tariff  for  silver," 
take  your  ingots  to 
e  they  will  offer  you. 
:  not  speak  ill  of  our 
tive,  meddling;  one 
gold  but  they  must 

silver,  then,  Methu- 

said   Merhusalem, 
i^e  a  customer." 
;dulously. 

id    Methusalem  ad- 

»rs    of   age,  whose 

r  acquaintance  with 

doors  last  night,  or 

proudly,  "  there  was 
•rame  de  la  Mis^re,' 
re  was  a  crush  and  a 
s  pocket.  But  the 
et  was  packed,  every 
time.    I  had  ten  of 


THE  KNIGHTS  OF  THE  BLACK  CAP. 


39 


I 


my  men  ready  to  my  orders.  When  one  of  them  told 
me  the  carriage  was  ready,  I  ran  to  open  the  door.  I 
helped  my  lady  in,  I  assisted  a  stout  gentleman,  and 
nearly  every  time,  a  fan,  a  lace  handkerchief,  or  a  piece 
of  jewelry  remained  in  my  hands.  Mere  Fanfiche  got 
the  best  of  me,  but  it's  all  one,  I  don't  complain.  I  love 
pretty  actresses,  as  much  at  least  as  the  great  people  do." 

"  So  Mother  Faniiche  had  all  the  profits  of  the  sale  ?" 

"  I  kept  whatever  I  could  for  you." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  now  ?" 

•'  A  complete  costume  of  velvet,  with  shoes  and  hat  to 
match." 

"  You  have  some  plan  in  your  head  ?"  said  Methusalem. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  ball  at  Vauxhall,"  said  Pomme 
d'Api,  "and  I  must  be  smart;  there  is  no  smuggling  in 
in  white  blouses  there;  it  is  near  the  Custom  House." 

"  I  say,  Pomme  d'Api,"  said  Rat-de-Cave,  "  be  gallant, 
and  take  the  Naine  there,  so  that  you  will  have  a  dancer 
ready  to  hand." 

The  Naine's  eyes  flashed,  and  she  replied, 

"  I'd  have  you  to  know  that  I  want  none  of  his  com- 
pany, nor  the  likes  of  him  either.  If  I  had  wished,  I  could 
have  been  the  wife  of  a  man  who  could  raise  four  weights 
of  three  pounds  each,  with  his  arms  extended,  and  who 
could  have  knocked  you  all  down  with  one  blow  of  his  fist." 

At  this  outbreak,  Methusalem's  guests  all  laughed  out- 
right. 

"  And  you  refused  a  husband  of  that  sort,"  said  Pomme 
d'Api.  "  By  my  faith,  you're  hard  to  please;  are  you 
waiting  for  the  King  of  Siam,  or  must  your  heart  be 
touched  like  the  strings  of  a  guitar  ?" 

"  My  reasons  do  not  concern  you,  miserable  pigmy," 
cried  the  Naine. 

"Then  why  do  you  confide  in  us?"  said  the  boy;  "and 
if  it  comes  to  that,  I  know  all  about  it." 


/ 


IDOLS. 


"  Stop,"  cried  the  Naine,  "  stop." 

"If  you  get  angry,  TU  tell  his  name,"  said  Pomme 
tl'Apl  "I  know  more  than  you  think  about  the  romance 
of  your  life,  and  it  was  queer  enough  how  I  got  to  hear 
it  It  was  one  night  at  a  gingerbread  fair.  The  Mounte- 
bank saw  his  clown  come  in  dead  drunk,  to  the  despair 
of  the  manager.  I  saw  there  were  some  pence  to  be 
earned,  and  I  offered  to  take  his  place.  The  man 
thought  me  rather  ambitious,  but  he  questioned  me 
about  my  gifts,  and  finding  that  I  could  receive  a  kick 
or  a  box  in  the  ear  gracefully,  he  engaged  me  secretly, 
saying  never  a  word  to  his  master.  After  the  show, 
being  charmed  with  my  d6but  and  the  receipts,  they 
invited  me  to  supper.  I  accepted,  and  at  dessert  Signer 
Guigolfo  asked  me  to  enter  his  troupe.  I  declined  the 
honor,  informing  Guigolfo  that  I  exercised  the  lucra- 
tive trade  of  opener  of  carriages,  and  dealer  in  theatre 
checks. 

"I  spoke  of  Father Methusalem's  boarding-house,  and 
of  you,  Naine,  and  Guigolfo  exclaimed,  'By  your  de- 
scription,  I  am  sure  I  knew  her  once.' 

" '  Bah,'  cried  I,  incredulously. 

"'It  is  so.' 

" '  How  and  where  ?*  I  asked. 

" '  It  is  a  long  time,  now,  since  such  a  woman  became  a 
member  of  our  company.  She  brought  with  her  a  child 
Some  three  years  of  age,  pale  and  delicate,  with  eyes  of 
clear  amber,  and  dress  that  bespoke  wealth.  We  could 
easily  train  the  child,  and  as  for  the  woman,  she  had 
only  to  show  herself  to  make  an  audience  laugh.  I  en- 
gaged her.  During  her  engagement  we  went  through 
Spain,  Italy,  and  France;  when  I  offered  to  renew  our 
agreement,  she  said  that  she  wanted  to  put  the  child 
under  .a  regular  course  of  study.  Study  indeed,  a  fine 
joke!    I  had  taught  her  enough  to  gain  a  living  in  any 


THE    KNIGHTS  OF  THE  BLACK  CAP. 


41 


name,"  said  Pomme 
k  about  the  romance 
jh  how  I  got  to  hear 
,d  fair.  The  Mounte- 
irunk,  to  the  despair 
e  some  pence  to  be 
s  place.  The  man 
t  he  questioned  me 
could  receive  a  kick 
engaged  me  secretly, 
er.  After  the  show, 
1  the  receipts,  they 
ind  at  dessert  Signer 
mpe.  I  declined  the 
exercised  the  lucra- 
ind  dealer  in  theatre 

boarding-house,  and 
imed,  'By  your  de- 


h  a  woman  became  a 
ight  with  her  a  child 
elicate,  with  eyes  of 
;  wealth.  We  could 
he  woman,  she  had 
dience  laugh.  I  en- 
nt  we  went  through 
flfered  to  renew  our 
!d  to  put  the  child 
study  indeed,  a  fine 
gain  a  living  in  any 


city  of  Europe.  But  remonstrance  was  useless,  she  took 
the  child,  and  I  never  saw  her  since.  If  she  is  in  want, 
give  me  her  address.  There  is  always  place  for  her  in 
the  company.'  I  promised  Guigolfo  to  bring  you  to  him, 
but  I  always  forgot.  Perhaps  I  should  never  have  re- 
membered this  episode,  if  you  had  not  spoken  of 
your  journeys,  and  the  athlete  who  asked  you  in  mar- 
riage." 

An  expression  of  pain  and  rage  crossed  the  woman's 
face,  and  she  would  have  thrown  the  bottle  she  held  in 
her  hand  at  the  boy's  head,  had  not  Methusalem,  seeing 
the  danger,  interposed,  reminding  Naine  of  her  duties, 
and  calling. Pomme  d'Api  to  order. 

Supper  went  off  gayly. 

After  it  was  over,  the  Naine  lit  a  petroleum  lamp, 
which  gave  out  a  horrid  odor,  and  each  one  of  the  guests 
lighting  his  pipe  or  his  cigar,  soon  filled  the  room  with 
a  dense  cloud  of  smoke. 

Conversation  had  ceased,  thb  Naine  was  about  to 
bury  herself  in  the  black  depths  of  the  kitchen,  when  a 
young  man  of  some  twenty  years  of  agt  opened  the 
dining-room  door.  He  quickly  removed  his  hat,  put  it 
under  his  left  arm  with  a  graceful  gesture,  and  drawing 
from  his  pocket  a  soft  cap  of  black  silk,  placed  it  jauntily 
upon  the  side  of  his  head,  and  advanced  into  the  circle 
of  smokers. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Knights  of  the  Black  Cap!"  said  he 
in  a  sonorous  voice. 

This  was  the  signal;  every  one  of  the  guests  im- 
mediately put  on  a  similar  head  gear,  and  once  bearing 
this  passport,  became  mutually  confidential  and  com* 
municative. 

"  Have  you  dined,  Fleur  d'Echafaud?"  asked  the  Naine 
of  the  new-comer. 

"No,  bring  me  whatever  you  like,  only  see  that  it  is 


/ 


42 


IDOLS. 


good,  and  in  a  private  room.  Rat-de-Cave  will  keep  me 
company." 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Rat-de-Cave. 

"What,"  cried  Methusalem,  "concealment  from  the 
Father  of  the  Knights  of  the  Black  Cap!" 

"  You  will  know  all  in  a  day  or  two,  old  man,"  said  the 
new-comer. 

"  Agreed,  I  permit  the  consultation." 

The  Naine  soon  appeared,  with  a  beefsteak  deliciously 
cooked,  salad  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  She  laid  the  table 
in  a  neighboring  room,  and  Rat-de-Cave  was  soon 
closeted  there  with  his  hopeful  associate. 

The  latter,  whom  they  called  by  the  name  of  Flaur 
d'Echafaud  (Gallows-Flower),  was  a  good-looking, 
well-made  youth,  carefully  dressed  and  intelligent.  His 
face  was  a  perfect  oval,  his  eyes  were  blue,  and  not 
as  yet  dimmed  by  late  hours,  his  brows  finely  pencilled, 
and  delicately  arched.  If  his  lips  were  somewhat  too 
thin,  they  had  a  trick  of  smiling  pleas&ntly.  His  hands 
were  white,  his  feet  small.  His  hair,  reddish  in  color, 
showed  to  advantage  the  delicacy  of  his  complexion. 
Everything  about  him  indicated  a  man  who  had  led  an 
easy  life,  and  whose  habits  would  seem  to  have  led  him 
far  from  the  motley  assemblage  by  which  he  had  been 
so  rapturously  received. 

"Well,  young  un,"  said  the  old  thief,  "I  smell  a  rat." 

"  You  are  not  mistaken,  devil's  limb,"  said  the  other. 

"What's  the  game?" 

"  A  hundred  thousand  francs  to  divide." 

"And  the  danger?" 

"  The  danger  is  little." 

"  All  right  then,  youngster,  the  game's  worth  the  risk." 

Meanwhile  the  Naine  from  a  convenient  corner  lis- 
tened quite  as  attentively  as  did  Rat-de-Cave,  while  his 
associate  continued  as  foUovt. . 


*WI'W'i&-te-w-4iftia->a«»fatS 


de-Cave  will  keep  me 

ave. 

oncealment  from  the 
Cap!" 
vo,  old  man,"  said  the 

on. 

I  beefsteak  deliciously 
e.  She  laid  the  table 
it-de-Cave  was  soon 
aciate. 

y  the  name  of  Flmir 
as  a  good-looking, 
and  intelligent.  His 
were  blue,  and  not 
irows  finely  pencilled, 
I  were  somewhat  too 
eascntly.  His  hands 
lair,  reddish  in  color, 
'  of  his  complexion, 
man  who  had  led  an 
seem  to  have  led  him 
y  which  he  had  been 

hief,  "I  smell  a  rat." 
mb,"  said  the  other. 

livide." 


ime's  worth  the  risk." 
onvenient  corner  lis- 
at-de-Cave,  while  his 


I 


( 


THE    KNIUHTS  OF  THE   BLACK  CAP. 


43 


"  Here  it  is,  then,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud:  "  my  master, 
Antoine  Pomereul,  had  a  visit  the  other  day  from  his 
great  friend,  Nicois,  the  banker.  I  met  him  by  chance 
in  the  hall,  and  struck  by  the  expression  of  his  face,  con- 
cluded that  there  was  a  secret  on  foot.  So  as  soon  as  he 
had  been  ushered  in,  I  listened  to  every  word  of  his  inter- 
view with  my  master.  We  can  so  easily  make  other  peo- 
ple's affairs  our  own.  I  learned,  then,  to  my  g^'eat  sur- 
prise that  the  banker  Nicois,  having  been  imprudent  at 
the  Bourse,  ran  the  risk  of  being  found  out,  and  came  to 
borrow  a  hundred  thousand  francs  from  the  millionaire. 
To  do  M.  Pomereul  justice,  he  is  goodness  and  honesty 
itself;  he  treats  me,  his  secretary,  as  kindly  as  he  does 
his  son,  M.  Xavier.  I  was  not  therefore  surprised  to 
hear  him  promise  the  money  to  his  friend,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  profit  by  this  circumstance.  I  have  been  three 
years  in  his  house,  and  have  had  time  to  take  the  form 
of  every  key,  and  to  have  the  most  important  ones 
duplicated.  M.  Pomereul  got  the  money  at  two  o'clock 
to-day.  To-night  it  will  rest  quietly  in  his  safe,  and  we 
must  take  it  from  there." 

"  But  of  course  you  have  not  the  key  of  the  safe  ?" 
asked  Rat-de-Cave. 

"  If  it  had  been  in  my  possession  for  an  hour,"  said  his 
companion,  "I  would  have  duplicated  it  also,  but  my 
master  always  keeps  it." 

"  During  the  day,  yes,  but  at  night?" 

"  At  night  he  places  it  under  his  pillow."    ^     ' 

"  And  we  have  to  get  it  from  there?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  a  dangerous  game,  an  extremely  dangerous 
game,  my  young  friend,"  said  Rat-de-Cave;  "doors  to 
open,  chests  to  force,  are  in  my  tine,  but  to  gin  my 
fingers  under  a  pillow  I  always  find  hard.  If  Pomereul 
should  woke?" 


) 


I     i 


9 


•i 


/ 


44 


IDOLS. 


"  Then  we  will  send  him  to  sleep  again,"  said  Flcur 
d'Echafaud  coolly,  "  that  is  all." 

"  I  do  not  like  that  kind  of  work.  It's  a  pretty  steep 
business,  when  the  share  is  doubtful." 

"  Do  you  refuse?" 

"  I  don't  say  that,  but—" 

"  Fifty  thousand  francs!" 

"  That's  tempting,  but  still—" 

"  Bah,  would  you  make  me  believe,  that  so  old  a  mon- 
key has  never  learned  to  make  faces?  That  you  were 
never  surprised,  embarrassed,  and  in  a  moment  of  mad 
fear  or  avarice  used  your  knife?" 

"  Never,"  said  Rat-de-Cave.  "  I  am  a  thief,  a  robber, 
what  you  will,  but  it  stops  there.  I  know  every  kind 
of  thieving,  and  if  need  be,  could  invent  more.  I  could 
take  away  a  horse  and  carriage  as  easily  as  a  pair  of 
shoes,  no  game  is  too  small  for  me.  When  I  can't  find 
some  old  chap  with  a  pocket  full  of  gold,  I  am  content 
with  a  box  of  s.pice  from  the  grocer.  I  prefer  petty 
larceny  to  grand,  because  it  often  brings  in  as  much, 
and  isn't  dangerous.  What  makes  a  first-class  pick- 
pocket is  his  sharpness  in  running  risks,  without  taking 
his  chanae  of  i\  free  voyage  to  New  Caledonia.  I 
thought  I  taught  you  all  this  before." 

"  You  did,  and  I  generally  follow  your  advice,"  said 
Fleur  d'Echafaud;  ^'but  this  time  the  temptation  is  so 
great  that  I  cannot  hesitate.  Do  you  think,  old  chap, 
it's  worth  while  having  founded  the  most  wonderful 
institution  of  the  age,  when  it  brings  in  so  little  profit? 
I  live  well  enough,  it's  true,  but  I  have  no  carriage." 

"  Such  luxury  as  that  will  let  up  on  you,"  said  Rat-de- 
Cave.  _ 

"Oh,  I'll  manage  that,"  said  the  other.  "Once  the 
capital  is  in  my  hand,  I'll  take  a  run  at  Monaco.  I  can 
ride  a  few  thousand  francs  on  the  roulette-table,  and 


)  again,"  said  Flcur 
It's  a  pretty  steep      ^ 


e,  that  so  old  a  mon- 
es?  That  you  were 
in  a  moment  of  mad 

am  a  thief,  a  robber, 
I  know  every  kind 
ivent  more.     I  could 
s  easily  as  a  pair  of 
When  I  can't  find 
if  gold,  I  am  content 
icer.     I  prefer  petty 
brings  in  as  much, 
hi  a  first-class  pick- 
risks,  without  taking 
New  Caledonia.      I 

your  advice,"  said 
the  temptation  is  so 
you  think,  old  chap, 
the  most  wonderful 
gs  in  so  little  profit? 
ive  no  carriage." 
m  you,"  said  Rat-de- 
other.  "Once  the 
a  at  Monaco.  I  can 
roulette-table,  and 


THE    KNIGHTS  OF  THE  Bl^CK  CAP. 


45 


whether  I  win  or  lose,  it  will  matter  little.  I  shall  be 
known  as  a  gambler,  that  suffices.  I  shall  tell  my  friends 
I  won,  treat  them  at  the  Caf^  Anglais,  invite  some  news- 
paper men,  and  next  day  the  morning  journals  will  have 
it  that  I  broke  the  bank  at  Monaco.  Thenceforth  I  can 
have  horses  and  elegant  apartments,  and  no  one  will 
inquire  where  or  how  I  got  the  means  to  keep  them. 
You  admit  that  I  am  good  at  inventions;  give  me  your 
hand;  have  confidence  in  me,  and  lend  me  your  help 
to-night." 

"The  merchant  goes  early  to  bed?"  asked  Rat-de- 
Cave. 

"  Very  early." 

"  His  servants  ?" 

"  Are  on  the  fifth  floor,  and  go  up  there  as  soon  as  M. 
Pomereul  retires." 

"His  children?" 

"  Mile.  Sabine  usually  retires  at  nine.  The  eldest  son 
scarcely  ever  dines  at  his  father's  table,  and  as  for  M. 
Xavier,  he  never  comes  in  till  daybreak,  for  he  plays  at 
the  club  all  night." 

"So  we  shall  be  alone." 

"Entirely." 

"The  only  danger  is  if  M.  Pomereul  wakes." 

"  In  that  case,  coward,  I  will  take  charge  of  him,"  said 
Fleur  d'Echafaud,  with  a  sinister  smile,  which  rendered 
his  face  positively  hideous. 

Rat-de-Cave  rose. 

"  Count  on  me,"  he  said. 

"Everything  must  be  ready,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud; 
"  we  will  wear  tradesmen's  clothes,  take  a  carriage,  which 
will  set  us  down  at  the  comer  of  the  Rue  de  la  Chauss6e 
d'Antin,  the  overcoat  which  we  carry  on  our  arm  will 
conceal  a  blouse,  in  case  there  is  need  of  further  disguise. 
At  the  door  we  shall  ask  for  M.  Sulpice  Pomereul;  hit 


i~''*«W|fe 


/ 


'i 


46  IDOLS. 

room  is  above  his  father's;  the  concierge  will  suppose 
we  are  engaged  in  conversation  with  the  priest;  we  shall 
get  into  our  carriage  and  go  to  finish  the  night  at  some 
theatre,  and  next  day  Jean  Machd  will  return  to  his 
ordinary  occupations,  and  Fleur  d'Echafaud  will  go  as 
usual  to  M.  Pomereul's,  to  fulfil  his  duties  as  secretary." 

"  I  shall  be  with  you." 

"  Till  to-night  then,  at  the  passage  Choiseul,  where  we 
will  take  our  carriage." 

The  two  wretches  arose;  but  closely  connected  as  they 
were  by  their  complicity  in  crime,  it  was  with  profound 
disgust  that  Fleur  d'Echafaud  gave  his  hand  to  Jean 
Machd,  alias  Rat-de-Cave. 

As  they  went  out  of  the  room  the  man  muttered, 
looking  after  the  young  man, 

"  He  will  stop  at  nothing,  at  nothing  !" 

The  return  of  Rat-de-Cave  and  Fleur  d'Echafaud  was 
hailed  with  acclamation. 

"  Thanks,  good  friends,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud. 

"There  you  have  genius,  coolness,  daring,"  said  Rat- 
de-Cave,  pointing  out  his  companion  to  Father  Methu- 
salem. 

"And  such  a  contour!"  added  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  with 
a  gesture  of  indescribable  insolence  and  conceit. 

Then  turning  to  the  group  of  "  Knights  of  the  Black 
Cap,"  he  said: 

"  Marc  Mauduit,  secretary  of  the  millionaire  Pomereul, 
must  now  show  himself  on  the  boulevard.  Sans  adieu, 
my  friends." 

Leaving  the  courtyard,  Fleur  d'Echafaud  stuffed  his 
cap  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat,  put  on  his  beaver, 
and  soon  reached  the  thoroughfare. 


vicierge  will  suppose 
1  the  priest;  we  shall 
sh  the  night  at  some 
ft  will  return  to  his 
Echafaud  will  go  as 
duties  as  secretary." 

e  Choiseul,  where  we 

ely  connected  as  they 
it  was  with  profound 
ve  his  hand  to  Jean 

\  the  man  muttered, 

ling  I" 

^leur  d'Echafaud  was 

lur  d'Echafaud. 
$s,  daring,"  said  Rat- 
on to  Father  Methu- 

leur  d'Echafaud,  with 
;  and  conceit. 
Knights  of  the  Black 

millionaire  Pomereul, 
ulevard.     Sans  adieu, 

'Echafaud  stuffed  his 
>at,  put  on  his  beaver, 


< 


•fe^ 


''**6*?rfiii«»fife^ 


THE   CRIME.  ^ 


CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Crims. 

After  the  terrible  scene  which  had  passed  between 
Monsieur  Pomereul  and  his  son,  Xavier  shut  himself 
up  in  his  room.  The  idea  of  returning  to  the  club  with- 
out paying  his  debt  was  insupportable  to  him,  and  he 
knew  his  friends  too  well  to  hope  to  obtain  from  them 
the  sum  which  he  so  urgently  required.  Once  alone, 
he  paced  the  floor  in  uncontrollable  rage,  giving  vent 
alternately  to  threats,  and  exclamations  of  shame  and 
despair. 

The  Abb6  Sulpice  asked  to  be  admitted.  Xavier 
obstinately  refused.  Yet  he  knew  that,  far  from  adding 
to  his  suffering,  the  young  priest  would,  on  the  contrary, 
alleviate  it ;  still,  instead  of  being  grateful  for  his  kind- 
ness, he  regarded  it  as  an  expression  of  contempt  It 
made  him  angry  to  think  that  Sulpice  had  money  in  the 
safe,  without  reflecting,  as  his  father  had  told  him,  that 
Sulpice's  possessions  were  the  patrimony  of  the  poor. 
Blinded  by  his  passions,  harassed  by  his  urgent  neces- 
sities, he  could  not  believe  that  there  was  any  one  in  the 
world  so  unhappy  as  he,  or  any  situation  so  terrible  as  his. 

Besides  he  was  mistaken;  all  the  abba's  savings  had 
gone  the  previous  week  to  save  a  worthy  man  and  the 
father  of  a  family  from  bankruptcy.  Moreover  if,  in  his 
strict  integrity,  the  young  priest,  like  his  father,  believed 
that  all  debts,  even  gambling  debts,  should  be  paid  to 
the  last  cent,  he  thought  it  but  just  that  Xavier  should 
pay  his  by  instalments.  Had  he  not  after  that  fashion 
paid  debts  as  sacred  as  these  ?  Sulpice  would  also  have 
considered  it  wrong  to  abet  Xavier  in  his  evil  ways  by 


-*f  ,; 


/ 


48 


IDOLS. 


furnishing  him  with  the  means.  There  was  no  way  to 
save  him,  except  by  letting  the  rotten  planks  of  the 
vessel  which  wi'S  carrying  him  astray  break  beneath  his 
feet.  Although  resolved  to  use  his  influence  later  with 
his  father  that  Xavier  might  be  relieved,  he  thought  it 
best  at  the  time  to  let  him  fathom  the  depths  of  the  gulf 
which  yawned  before  him. 

But  Xavier  was  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  sound  reason, 
to  take  advice,  to  seek  for  truth  and  light  He  thought 
of  but  one  thing,  and  that  was  his  debt.  Already  he 
saw  lus  name  placed  at  the  club  among  the  bankrupts,  a 
punishment  inflicted  on  all  members  who  did  not  dis- 
charge their  gambling  debts  after  a  short  interval.  He 
told  himself  he  would  rather  be  branded  as  a  murderer 
than  incur  such  disgrace.  It  would  forbid  him  the 
entree  to  all  fashionable  clubs;  his  most  intimate  friends 
would  cut  him  on  the  street.  So,  ds  he  believed  it  im- 
possible  to  exist  without  going  to  the  club  and  being  on 
familiar  terms  with  the  men  about  town,  he  fell  into  a 
sort  of  despair  and  hated  all  whom  he  had  hitherto  loved. 
The  life  which  he  had  led  for  five  years  had  deprived 
him  of  all  sense  of  justice  and  injustice.  A  quench- 
less thirst  for  new  pleasures,  each  of  which  left  a  sting, 
consumed  him.  To  struggle  against  the  weariness  of 
monotonous  pleasures  and  mad  folly  he  exercised  his 
imagination  to  find  amongst  them  all  something  new. 
Without  taking  any  special  interest  in  horses,  he  went 
to  races;  without  being  fond  of  dancing,  he  was  forever 
at  the  ballet;  without  any  real  love  for  art,  he  bought 
pictures. 

Having  lost  all  idea  of  what  was  really  good  and 
beautiful  he  despised  its  true  language.  The  slang  of 
the  clubs  or  the  boulevards  enlivened  his  conversation. 
He  aimed  at  being  witty,  but  cared  nothing  <^  real  wit 


THE  CRIME. 


49 


here  was  no  way  to 
otten  planks  of  the 
ay  break  beneath  his 
s  influence  later  with 
lieved,  he  thought  it 
he  depths  of  the  gulf 

iten  to  sound  reason, 
1  light  He  thought 
is  debt.  Already  he 
ong  the  bankrupts,  a 
ers  who  did  not  dis- 
a  short  interval.  He 
anded  as  a  murderer 
mid  forbid  him  the 
nost  intimate  friends 
AS  he  believed  it  im- 
he  club  and  being  on 

town,  he  fell  into  a 
le  had  hitherto  loved. 

years  had  deprived 
[ijustice.  A  quench- 
of  which  left  a  sting, 
nst  the  weariness  of 
Dlly  he  exercised  his 

all  something  new. 
St  in  horses,  he  went 
icing,  he  was  forever 
e  for  art,  he  bought 

vas  really  good  and 

l^age.    The  slang  of 

tied  his  conversation. 

nothing  <^  real  wit 


and  intelligence.  Most  of  his  stories  wore  those  which 
he  read  in  the  daily  papers.  It  must  not  be  supposed, 
l.owever,  that  the  speech  of  his' com  pan  ions,  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Jockey  Club,  was  very  profound  or  that  their  opin- 
ions were  expressed  in  studied  phrases.  Their  judgment 
of  books,  theatres,  equipages,  everything  in  fact  was  ex- 
pressed  by  "  it  has  or  it  has  not  cAic."  That  meant  all. 
Whoever  was  wanting  in  c/iit-  might  possess  all  the  car- 
dinal and  theological  virtues  combined  with  the  rarest 
genius,  but  still  be  of  no  account. 

Xavier  sat  absorbed  in  gloomy  reflections  when  the 
door  of  his  room  opened  and  Sabine  entered.  At  sight 
of  her  the  young  man  could  not  restrain  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,  Xavier,"  she  said,  gently.  "  I  know 
you  refused  to  see  Sulpice  and  yet  I  ventured  to  come. 
For,  kind  and  indulgent  as  our  brother  is,  his  black  robe 
frightens  you,  and  you  dread  his  advice.  I  do  not  come 
to  offer  any;  I  have  no  right,  nor  is  it  my  place  to  do  sa 
I  do  not  evn  know  what  you  have  done  wrong.  I  even 
forget  that  /ou  threatened  our  father  in  my  presence. 
All  I  want  is  for  you  to  become  yourself  again  and  make 
peace  with  us  all.  I  do  not  want  my  betrothal  to  be 
saddened  by  your  suffering.  For  I  was  happy  yester- 
day, until  your  sorrow  cast  a  shadow  upon  my  joy.  You 
want  money  do  you  not  ?  here  is  my  purse;  it  is  not  very 
heavy,  what  with  collections,  charity,  and  one  thing  or 
another.     It  contains  just  two  thousand  francs." 

Xavier  smiled  sadly. 

"  Thank  you,  Sabine,  but  two  thousand  francs  would 
not  pay  what  I  owe  the  Count  de  Moajoux." 

"  But  that  is  not  all,"  said  the  young  girl,  putting  her 
hand  into  her  pocket;  "  here  are  my  jewels." 

Xavier  took  them  with  feverish  hand,  necklaces,  ear- 


"-=**as 


/^ 


IDOL!«. 


rings,  rififlrs,  all  that  his  sister  offered  him;  he  examined 
them,  calculated  their  value,  then  threw  them  into 
Sabine's  lap. 

"  I  would  get  scarcely  ten  thousand  francs  for  all,"  he 
said;  "it  would  not  be  worth  while  deptriving  you  of 
them  for  that." 

"  Tlien  here,"  said  Sabine,  resolutely  unfastening  the 
bracelet  which  her  father  had  given  her  the  evening 
previous;  "for  great  evils,  great  remedies;  pawn  this 
bracelet,  Xavier,  but  do  not  sell  it,  it  was  our  mother's. 
I  will  explain  it  to  papa  some  way  or  another." 

"You  would  make  a  bad  liar,  Sabine." 

"  Then  I  shall  simply  tell  the  truth,"  said  the  young 
girl,  gently.  "  I  may  be  scolded  because  of  the  princi- 
ple. .  .  .  But  I  love  you  so  much,  Xavier,  that  I  really 
think  I  suffer  more  than  you  do.  But,  in  acting  as  he 
does,  our  father  wants  to  save  you,  to  bring  you  back  to 
us,  and  to  the  home  circle  where  you  come  so  rarely." 

"  Sabine,  you  promised  not  to  reproach  me." 

"  I  am  not  doing  so.  I  am  pleading  our  cause,  mine, 
my  father's,  Sulpice's.  We  all  suffer  on  your  account. 
Wherever  you  may  go,  believe  me,  you  will  find  none 
to  love  you  as  we  do.  So,  if  you  still  feel  any  affection 
for  your  sister,  accept  what  v/ill  restore  you  peace,  sell 
the  jewels,  pawn  the  bracelet,  discharge  your  debt  and 
promise  me  never  to  act  so  again." 

"  You  are  a  dear  creature,  Sabine,  and  I  am  far  from 
being  worthy  of  your  goodness.  But  keep  your  jewels, 
child,  I  have  forty  thousand  francs  to  pay  to-night  and 
what  you  possess  represents  but  half." 

"  Ah  !  if  I  had  my  dowry !"  cried  Sabine. 

"  When  you  have,  your  husband  will  take  care  of  that*" 
said  Xavier. 

"  He  ?  how  little  you  know  him !  Iftenedict  sayitlie 
wants  me  to  be  poor,  very  poor.    Is  he  not  a  flatterer?" 


red  him;  he  examined 
en    threw  them    into 

and  francs  for  all,"  he 
lile  deptriving  you  of 

utely  unfastening  the 
iven  her  the  evening 

remedies;   pawn  this 
t,  it  was  our  mother's, 
or  another." 
bine." 

-uth,"  said  the  young 

)ecause  of  the  princi- 

,  Xavier,  that  I  really 

But,  in  acting  as  he 

to  bring  you  back  to 
)u  come  so  rarely." 
proach  me." 
ding  our  cause,  mine, 
ffer  on  your  account. 
e,  you  will  find  noi;e 
still  feel  any  affection 
estore  you  peace,  sell 
iharge  your  debt  and 

ne,  and  I  am  far  from 

Jut  keep  your  jewels, 

5  to  pay  to-night  and 

alf." 

d  Sabine.  \ 

<riU  take  care  of  UaH^** 

n !    benedict  say^  lie 
8  he  nor  a  flatterer?" 


/ 


THE  CRIME. 


SI 


"  It  is  worse  than  flattery,  my  poor  child;  it  is  absurd* 
ity.  A  year  or  two  of  housekeeping  will  cure  you  both 
of  this  pretty  folly  and  generosity." 

"  But  how  are  you  going  to  pay  Count  de  Monjoux  t" 
asked  she. 

"  I  do  not  know  !"  cried  Xavier;  "  but  there  is  no  al- 
ternative. I  must  pay,  or  I  will  blow  my  brains  out.  I 
will  never  live  dishonored." 

"  And  you  would  die,  O  Xavier  i  die,  and  by  suicide, 
for  such  a  debt  as  this  !" 

"  To  judge  of  such  a  matter  is  not  girls'  work,  my  dear 
child.  I  have  twelve  hours  before  me  to  find  an  alterna- 
tive which  may  save  me." 

"  You  must  find  it !  Oh  !  tell  me  you  will  find  it  i" 
cried  Sabine. 

"I  will  find  it,"  said  Xavier,  impatiently;  "but  you 
must  let  me  seek  it.  If  I  should  chance  to  need  you,  I 
will  remember  your  offer.  Leave  me  now,  dear  Sabine; 
I  must  be  alone." 

The  young  girl  hesitated.  Her  brother's  hardness 
alarmed  her.  She  had  hoped  he  might  be  touched  by 
her  tenderness;  she  expected  one  word,  one  look  of  the 
old  affection;  but  Xavier's  heart  was  hard,  and  the  ex- 
pected word  did  not  pass  his  lips.  The  young  girl  took 
up  her  jewels  and  her  purse  in  a  kind  of  shamefaced 
way;  she  had  reached  the  door,  when  Xavier  suddenly 
followed  and  kissed  h-;r,  saying: 

"You  are  a  good  sister,  Sabine.  An  angel  upon 
earth." 

The  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes,  and  she  hurried  out. 

Left  alone,  Xavier  almost  blushed  at  his  momentary 
.  weakness.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  as  if  seek- 
ing an  inspiration.  He  remembered  his  sister's  words: 
"  If  r  had  my  dowry."  "  Yes,  but  even  if  Benedict  does 
not  rufpwt  of  his  chivalrous  absurdity,"  he  thought,  "the 


i::;>l 


/^ 


i'    !, 


IDOLS. 


marriage  will  not  take  place  for  a  month  at  least,  and  I 
cannot  wait.  Her  dowry  ?  If  I  were  to  marry,  my  father 
would  have  to  give  me  one.  That  money  would  be  mine, 
to  dispose  of  at  my  will.  No  doubt;  but  I  must  remain 
free.  What  would  be  the  amount  of  Sabine's  dowry? 
I  think  father  spoke  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs. 
Yes,  since  my  majority,  he  puts  it  for  Sulpice  and  me  at 
twenty-five  thousand  pounds  of  interest,  the  principal  to 
come  later.  So  Sabine  will  have  half  a  r'.'illion;  and  in 
justice  he  owes  me  as  much.  One  fifth  of  that  sum 
would  save  me.  I  could  pay  that  envious  idiot,  Mon- 
joux,  who  is  jealous  of  my  horses  and  of  my  success.  I 
could  pay  for  the-  new  furniture,  and  have  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  pocket-money." 

Xavier  began  to  pace  furiously  up  and  down  the 
room.  "  To  know  it  is  here — in  this  very  house — within 
a  few  yards  of  me  !" 

.  A  dark  flush  passed  over  his  face  at  the  thought  which 
occurred  to  him,  and  he  threw  himself  heavily  into  a 
chair.  Yet  he  did  not  drive  the  odious  thought  from  his 
mind,  but  simply  tried  to  put  it  in  another  way. 

"  Well,  after  all,  would  it  not  only  be  what  lawyers  call 
an  advance  of  inheritance  ?"  said  he. 

He  went  to  the  bookcase  and  took  out  a  large  book 
with  sprinkled  edges.  He  turned  it  over  long  and  dili- 
gently, till  at  last  he  found  what  he  sought. 

"  The  law  understands  the  matter,"  said  he;  "  it  is  nei- 
ther crime  nor  misdemeanor  to  borrow  money  from  one's 
father,  whether  by  making  an  appeal  to  his  heart  or  open- 
ing his  safe.  Article  380  reads:  *  Thefts  committed  by 
children,  to  the  prejudice  of  their  father  and  mother,  can 
only  be  made  good  by  civil  reparation.* 

"  I  run  no  risk;  my  father  will  be  very  angry,  and  may 
even  curse  me.  But  his  curse  may  be  withdrawn,  his 
anger  appeased,  and  I  have  no  choice."    JUvier  took  a 


I 


hj&imm 


.^^m» 


THE  CRIME. 


53 


month  at  least,  and  I 

re  to  marry,  my  father 
money  would  be  mine, 
bt;  but  I  must  remain 
t  of  Sabine's  dowry? 
[red  thousand  francs, 
or  Sulpice  and  me  at 
erest,  the  principal  to 
lalf  a  r'.'illion;  and  in 
>ne  fifth  of  that  sura 
t  envious  idiot,  Mon- 
md  of  my  success.  I 
and  have  a  hundred 

Y  up  and  down  the 
is  very  house — within 

at  the  thought  which 
imself  heavily  into  a 
lous  thought  from  his 
another  way. 
r  be  what  lawyers  call 
e. 

ok  out  a  large  book 
it  over  long  and  dili- 
:  sought. 

•,"said  he;  "it  is  net- 
row  money  from  bfie's 
il  to  his  heart  or  open- 
Thefts  committed  by 
ither  and  mother,  can 
on.* 

:  very  angry,  and  may 
ly  be  withdrawn,  his 
ice."    JUvter  took  a 


' 


sudden,  irrevocable  resolution.  A  moment  before  de- 
jected, despairing,  he  was  now  full  of  hope  and  courage. 
But  far  as  he  was  already  advanced  in  his  fatal  path, 
what  he  was  about  to  do,  in  spite  of  all  his  sophisms, 
seemed  so  desperate,  so  terrible  a  crime,  that  he  felt  the 
necessity  of  stupefying  his  faculties  till  the  proper  mo- 
ment had  come.  The  clock  struck  noon.  He  rang  his 
bell;  Baptiste  appeared,  and  Xavier  ordered  breakfast  in 
his  room. 

"  Do  not  forget  the  Chartreuse  and  some  good  cham* 
pagne,"  said  he. 

When  his  meal  came,  he  drank  more  than  he  ate.  ' 

His  repast  ended,  he  lit  a  cigar  and  began  to  smoke. 
So  passed  the  day.  He  wrote  a  note  to  the  Count  de 
Monjoux,  begging  him  to  excuse  his  slight  but  unavoid- 
able delay  in  discharging  his  debt;  and  smoked  on  again 
till  dinner-time.  After  that,  he  kept  up  his  courage  by 
brandy  and  green  Chartreuse,  observing  from  his  room 
the  various  movements  in  the  house.  In  that  peaceful 
dwelling,  where  he  was  the  only  element  of  disorder,  the 
greatest  regularity  prevailed,  even  to  the  minutest  de- 
tails. M.  Pomercul  retired  early.  Their  duties  ended, 
the  servants  went  to  their  apartments  in  the  highest 
story  of  the  house.  That  he  might  be  more  free  to  ex- 
ercise his  ministry  of  charity  and  consolation  at  all  hours 
of  the  night,  the  Abb6  Sulpice  occupied  a  room,  fur- 
nished like  the  cell  of  a  monk,  on  the  same  floor  with 
the  servants.         ' 

By  half-past  ten  Sabine  and  her  father  were  the  only 
two  upon  the  first  floor,  except  Lipp-Lapp,  who  slept  in 
a  little  alcove  just  off  his  master's  bedroom.  When  the 
merchant  was  asked  why  he  did  not  keep  his  faithful 
Baptiste  near  him,  he  always  answered . 

"  I  depend  upon  Lipp-Lapp;  his  coun^  and  fidelity 
are  sufficient  for  my  safety." 


•     .*®M-4 


"'■assjjt 


/" 


54 


IDOLS. 


1^1 


The  hours  seemed  to  Xavier  to  drag  painfully.  Fever- 
ishly he  watched  the  slow-moving  hands  of  the  clock. 
He  dared  not  enter  his  father's  room  before  midnight, 
lest  he  should  have  sat  up  late  reading.  But  when  he 
had  counted  twelve  strokes  of  the  clock  he  rose,  and, 
barefooted,  opened  his  door  and  crept  cautiously  to- 
wards his  father's  room.  The  old  man  slept,  but  some 
painful  thought  seemed  to  haunt  his  sleep.  Shadows 
passed  over  that  face,  which  was  usually  so  serene,  and 
the  name  of  Xavier  fell  indistinctly  from  his  lips.  The 
criminal  paused  in  affright.  Had  his  father  recognized 
him  ?  But  no !  Pomereul  was  dreaming.  Under  the 
influence  of  his  dreams  he  made  a  hasty  movement,  and 
disarranging  the  pillows,  showed  a  little  bunch  of  keys, 
amongst  which  was  that  of  the  safe. 

Xavier's  hesitation  vanished;  he  seized  the  keys  and 
turned  away. 

Pomereul  slept  on. 

Xavier  left  the  door  half  open  behind  him,  and  entered 
the  study.  Though  his  father  had  never  confided  the 
key  of  the  safe  to  him,  yet  he  knew  the  one  which  opened 
it  Taking  a  little  bedroom  lamp,  he  entered  the  dark 
room  where  M.  Pomereul  kept  his  books  and  valuables. 
That  day  Marc  Mauduit,  the  secretary,  had  placed  there 
the  hundred  thousand  francs  destined  for  Andr6  Nicois, 
and  never  had  an  occasion  more  favorable  been  offered  to 
ft  son  descending  to  the  level  of  a  thief  to  satisfy  his  ex- 
pensive tastes  and  shameful  passions.  Xavier  laid  down 
the-lampupon  the  table,  chose  the  key,  fitted  it  to  the  se- 
cret lock,  and  the  safe  opened.  Heaps  of  bank-notes  lay 
before  his  eyes.  He  stood  irresolute.  Strange  phenome- 
non !  Why  did  he  not  eagerly  seize  the  money  which  a 
moment  before  he  had  persuaded  himself  would  give  him 
rest  ?  Why  did  he  not  remember  the  article  of  .law  which 
had  sustained  him  all  that  day  ?    He  forgot  that,  but  he 


I 


SS^flS 


^x&^^smsm 


rag  painfully.  Fever- 
;  hands  of  the  clock. 
om  before  midnight, 
ading.  But  when  he 
e  clock  he  rose,  and, 
crept  cautiously  to- 
man slept,  but  some 
his  sleep.  Shadows 
isually  so  serene,  and 
y  from  his  lips.  The 
his  father  recognized 
'eaming.  Under  the 
liasty  movement,  and 
I  little  bunch  of  keys, 

seized  the  keys  and 


lind  him,  and  entered 
1  never  confided  the 
he  one  which  opened 
he  entered  the  dark 
books  and  valuables, 
iry,  had  placed  there 
ed  for  Andr6  Nicois, 
>rable  been  offered  to 
lief  to  satisfy  his  ex- 
Xavier  laid  down 
ey,  fitted  it  to  the  se- 
ips  of  bank-notes  lay 
Strange  phenome- 
i  the  money  which  a 
nself  would  give  him 
!  article  of  .law  which 
e  forgot  that,  but  he 


THE  CRIME. 


5S 


^Aim 


saw  at  last  what  he  really  was — a  thief.  In  presence  of 
the  gold,  of  the  bank-notes  for  which  he  had  so  longed, 
he  judged  and  condemned  himself.  The  hot  blood 
mounted  to  his  face;  as  he  drew  back  from  the  open 
door  with  a  gesture  of  horror  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  por- 
trait of  his  mother,_where  it  hung  above  the  safe.  Her 
pure  image  seemed  to  reproach  him  with  his  crime,  and 
implore  him  to  degrade  himself  no  farther.  Terror  min- 
gled with  remorse,  and  Xavier  drew  back,  farther  and 
farther,  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  features  of  the  dead ; 
back  till  he  had  passed  out  of  the  study,  leaving  the 
door  of  the  safe  still  open,  leaving  the  keys  in  the  secret 
lock. 

"  To-morrow  I  will  confess  all,"  he  said,  "  and  accept 
whatever  punishment  my  father  may  inflict." 

When  he  had  reached  his  own  room,  Xavier  threw 
himself  still  dressed  upon  the  bed.  Overcome  with 
shame,  terror,  and  remorse,  he  relentlessly  condemned 
and  ~..  '^'id  his  own  folly  and  wickedness,  till  at  last  he 
mek.'o        .  tears  like  a  child. 

Wl5-  A\  J  remorse  thus  triumphed  over  Xavier's  per- 
versit; ,  .*  j  men  rang  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  Pomereul. 
They  asked  for  the  Abb6  Sulpice.  The  concierge,  half 
asleep,  uncertain  whether  he  Vas  in  or  not,  allowed  them 
to  go  up.  Instead  of  proceeding  to  the  third  story,  the 
two  men,  who  were  no  other  than  Rat-de-Cave  and 
Fleur  d'Echafaud,  stopped  at  the  first  floor.  Fleur 
d'Echafaud  opened  the  door  with  a  dexterity  which'Was, 
to  say  the  least,  remarkable.  The  two  men  entered  and 
closed  it  after  them. 

"Was  I  not  right?"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud;  "there  is 
none  to  interfere  with  us;  we  are  masters  of  the  situa- 
tion; let  us  try  to  make  good  use  of  it.  Now  for  Pom- 
ereul's  study." 

Rat-de-Cave  cautiously  threw  the  light  of  his  lantern 


/ 


56 


IDOLS. 


into  every  corner  of  the  room;  as  it  fell  on  the  open  safe 
he  cried  out, 

"We  are  robbed;  some  one  has  been  before  us." 

"Let  us  examine,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud. 

The  robl}ers  knelt  down  and  groped  in  the  safe  with 
their  hands. 

"Do  not  touch  the  bonds,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud; 
"  they  would  only  compromise  us;  let  us  stuff  the  bills 
into  our  pockets  and  be  off." 

Rat-de-Cave  and  his  companion  began  to  fill  the 
pockets  of  their  overcoats  with  bank-notes.  They  had 
almost  finished  when  a  slight  noise  made  them  turn. 
They  scarcely  suppressed  a  cry  of  terror.  M.  Pomereul, 
in  his  dressing  gown,  had  come  into  the  study.  When 
Xavier,  carried  away  by  his  intense  desire  to  procure 
money  at  any  cost,  even  that  of  crime,  had  entered  his 
father's  room,  the  latter  was  sleeping  a  feverish  sleep, 
almost  like  nightmare.  In  his  dreams  he  had  a  con- 
sciousness of  danger.  Threatened  by  unknown  foes,  he 
was  defending  himself  fighting;  a  terrible  shock  caused 
him  to  awake  with  a  start,  his  face  haggard,  the  cold 
perspiration  standing  out  on  his  forehead,  his  limbs 
trembling.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  collect  his 
thoughts,  confusing  the  real  scenes  of  the  evening  past 
with  the  more  horrible  ones  of  his  dream.  Xavier's 
name  came  involuntarily  to  his  lips,  and  the  pain  at  his 
heart  convinced  him  that  he  suffered  from  nothing  else 
than  the  misdeeds,  the  harsh  words,  the  threats  of  his 
misguided  son.  Pomereul's  eyes  fell  mechanically  upon 
the  door  of  his  room;  it  was  ajar,  and  he  rememt)ered 
perfectly  having  closed  it  when  he  came  in.  The  thought 
that  some  one  had  been  in  his  room  while  he  slept  crossed 
his  mind.  But  who  could  it  be  ?  Sulpice  ?  Why,  Sul- 
pice  had  told  him  he  would  be  obliged  to  go  to  La  Vil- 
lette,  and  that  he  would  not  return  till  very  late.    Sabine  1 


-^ 


sU  on  the  open  safe 

in  before  us." 

Iiafaud. 

k1  in  the  safe  with 

Fleur  d'Echafaud; 
:t  us  stuff  the  bills 

began  to  fill  the 
t-notes.  They  had 
I  made  them  turn, 
ror.     M.  Pomereul, 

the  study.    When 

desire  to  procure 
te,  had  entered  his 
g  a  feverish  sleep, 
ms  he  had  a  con- 
J  unknown  foes,  he 
-rible  shock  caused 

haggard,  the  cold 
}rehead,  his  limbs 
Id  not  collect  his 
i  the  evening  past 
(  dream.  Xavier's 
uid  the  pain  at  his 

from  nothing  else 
the  threats  of  his 
mechanically  upon 
id  he  remembered 
ein.  The  thought 
lile  he  slept  crossed 
ilpice  ?  Why,  Sul- 
id  to  go  to  La  Vil- 
irery  late.    Sabine  ? 


I 


THE  CRIME. 


5; 


Sabine  never  came  into  her  father's  room  at  night;  she 
was  asleep  long  ago.  M.  Pomereul  had  heard  her  light 
step  going  about  her  household  duties,  and  then  silence, 
the  time  for  prayer  and  sleep.  Xavier!  oh,  if  it  were 
Xavier ! 

This  thought,  and  the  deep  anguish  it  caused  him,  in- 
stinctively led  M.  Pomereul  to  look  under  the  pillows 
wiiere  he  usually  kept  the  keys.  He  could  not  find  them. 
He  turned  over  pillows  and  bed-clothes.  "Ah!  the 
wretch  has  robbed  me,"  he  cried. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed,  threw  on  his  dressing-gown,  and 
taking  no  light,  lest  it  should  betray  him,  stole  softly  to 
tiie  study.  The  door  was  open,  Pomereul  looked  in,  and 
saw  a  man  kneeling  before  the  safe,  busy  emptying  it 
There  could  be  no  doubt  it  was  Xavier.  Full  of  just 
wrath  Pomereul  advanced  hastily,  and  in  his  haste,  and 
owing  to  the  dim  light  of  Rat-de-Cave's  lantern,  he 
overturned  a  stool.  At  that  moment  the  robbers  turned; 
and  at  that  moment  Pomereul  saw  their  faces  and  knew 
he  had  to  deal  with  burglars.  Rat-de-Cave  and  Fleur 
d'Echafaud  exchanged  glances;  they  understood  each 
other  perfectly;  above  all  things  M.  Pomereul  must  not 
be  allowed  to  summon  help.  Rat-de-Cave  sprang  upon 
the  merchant,  and  twined  his  bony  fingers  round  his  neck. 
A  stifled  cry  escaped  from  the  old  man;  he  struggled 
desperately,  his  eyes  rolling  in  their  sockets.  He  col- 
lected all  his  energy,  and  by  a  desperate  effort  would 
have  released  himself  from  Rat-de-Cave's  hold,  but  the 
latter  tripped  him,  and  he  fell  panting  to  the  ground.  A 
providential  succor  arrived.  A  guttural  cry  was  heard 
from  a  comer  of  the  room,  and  a  creature,  whose  nature 
neither  of  the  robbers  could  define,  sprang  upon  Fleur 
d'Echafaud,  as  the  latter  was  about  to  assist  Rat-de-Cave 
in  finishing  their  victim.  It  was  the  faithful  Lipp-Lapp, 
who^  hearii^  Pomereul  leave  his  room  at  an  unusual 


^0 


»/'«- 


/" 


I 


S8 


IDOLS. 


I  I 


hour,  became  uneasy,  and  followed  him,  guessing  with 
his  wonderful  instinct  that  the  merchant  would  have 
need  of  him.  With  sudden  and  terrible  force,  which 
almost  compelled  Rat-de-Cave  to  loosen  his  hold,  the 
chimpanzee  threw  himself  upon  the  assassin,  paralyzing 
all  farther  effort  on  his  part 

"  The  devil  is  helping  him,"  howled  Rat^e-Cave. 

"Why  it  is  the  ape,"  cried  Fleur  d'Echafaud;  "finish 
the  old  man,  I  will  look  after  him." 

The  brief  moment  in  which  Pomereul  was  released 
from  his  assailant  gave  him  time  to  draw  breath,  and 
collect  all  his  strength.  While  Fleur  d'Echafaud  was 
preparing  to  dispose  of  the  chimpanzee  by  strategy 
rather  than  by  force,  Rat-de-Cave  fait  that  his  prey  was 
escaping  him.  But  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  drawing  a  dagger 
from  his  breast,  struck  the  animal  with  it  on  the  shoulder, 
and  turned  upon  him  the  anger  and  vengeance  of  the  ape! 
With  one  hand  Lipp-Lapp  seized  Fleur  d'Echafaud  by 
his  red  hair,  and  in  the  spirit  of  imitation  common  to 
his  race,  took  him  by  the  throat  with  the  other,  Fleur 
d'Echafaud  would  have  been  strangled  like  Pomereul, 
whom  Rat-de-Cave  had  again  thrown  down;  but  he  struck 
the  monkey  once  more  in  the  breast  with  his  fatal  wea- 
pon; Lipp-Lapp  relaxed  his  hold,  and  fell  full  length  on 
the  floor,  howling  piteously. 

"That's  one  out  of  the  way,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud. 

"The  old  man  is  dead,"  said  Rat-de-Cave. 

"Let  us  be  off  quickly,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud;  "we 
have  provided  a  sensation  for  all  to-morrow's  papers." 

Distrusting  Rat-de-Cave,  or  fearing  he  was  mistaken, 
he  bent  over  the  corpse,  and  questioned  the  pulseless 
heart  "All  right,"  said  he,  "a  first^slass  funeral.  As 
private  secretary,  I  shall  follow  the  corpse." 

The  assassins  pulled  up  the  collar  of  their  coats,  drew 
their  hats  over  their  eyes,  extinguished  their  dark  Ian. 


sMwwswA'ftsa 


I  him,  guessing  with 
lerchant  would  have 
terrible  force,  which 
loosen  his  hold,  the 
e  assassin,  paralyzing 

ed  Rat^e-Cave. 
d'Echafaud;  "finish 

mereul  was  released 
to  draw  breath,  and 
eur  d'Echafaud  was 
ipanzee  by  strategy 
elt  that  his  prey  was 
id,  drawing  a  dagger 
th  it  on  the  shoulder, 
irengeance  of  the  ape. 
Fleur  d'Echafaud  by 
mitation  common  to 
th  the  other.  Fleur 
gled  like  Pomereul, 
I  down;  but  he  struck 
t  with  his  fatal  wea- 
nd  fell  full  length  on 

Fleur  d'Echafaud. 
de-Cave. 

ur  d'Echafaud;  "we 
morrow's  papers." 
ig  he  was  mistaken, 
:ioned  the  pulseless 
stHEslass  funeral.  As 
rorpse." 

of  their  coats,  drew 
ihed  their  dark  Ian> 


THE  CRIME. 


S9 


tern,  went  out  of  the  room,  and  'quietly  descended  the 
stairs.  The  noise  of  the  street-door  closing  made  them 
pause  to  listen.  Some  one  had  come  in.  A  firm  step 
sounded  on  the  marble  of  the  vestibule.  The  same 
thought  occurred  to  Rat-de-Cave  and  his  companion, 
'  We  are  lost" 


•MttF 


/^ 


6o 


IDOLS. 


'a; 


':  ( 


CHAPTER  V. 

T    :  Secret  of  God. 

Notwithstanding  their  habitual  effrontery,  the  two 
villains  were  now  utterly  terror-stricken.  If  it  should 
chance  to  be  a  servant  belonging  to  the  house,  he  would 
undoubtedly  ask  their  business,  nor  was  it  likely  he 
would  ac--pt  the  excuse  which  had  satisfied  the  sleepy 
toHctcrge,  that  they  wanted  the  Abb6  Sulpice.  He 
would  in  all  probability  call  for  assistance,  and  have 
them  taken  upon  the  very  scene  of  their  double  crime. 
Whereas  to  murder  him  upon  the  stairs  as  he  came  up 
would  be  a  most  dangerous  proceeding.  In  their  sus- 
pense they  went  half  way  up  to  the  second  story;  and 
leanmg  over  the  bannister,  caught  a  good  view  of  a 
dark  figure  on  the  stairs  below.  Recognizing  him  by 
his  cassock,  Rat-de-Cave  whispered, 

"The  Abb(i  Sulpice." 

As  he  spol  he  wretch  dr«w  a  silk  handkerchief  from 
his  po^et,  an^  muffling  his  neck  and  the  lower  part  of 
his  face  with  it,  said  to  his  companion, 

"Watch  whatever  I  do,  and  say  whatever  I  say.  and 
we  are  saved."  . 

He  went  down  as  coolly  as  if  he  had  qome  on  some 
legitimate  business.  The  Abb6  Sulpice  hearing  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  looked  up,  and  saw  the  two  men 
advancing  towards  him.  Rat-de-Cave  addressed  him 
in  a  tone  at  once  agitated  and  respectful: 
"  The  Abb6  Pomereul,  I  believe,"  he  said 
"  That  is  my  name,"  said  Sulpice;  «  what  do  you  w«nt 
01  mer 


/ 


OD. 

effrontery,  the  two 
icken.  If  it  should 
the  house,  he  would 
>r  was  it  likely  he 
satisfied  the  sleepy 
Lbbi  Sulpice.  He 
issistance,  and  have 
their  double  crime, 
itairs  as  he  came  up 
ding.  In  their  sus- 
e  second  story;  and 

a  good  view  of  a 
Recognizing  him  by 


:  handkerchief  from 

d  the  lower  part  of 

n, 

whatever  I  say,  and 

lad  qomc  on  some 
pice  hearing  the 
saw  the  two  men 

ive  addressed  him 

iful: 

«  said, 
what  do  you  wAnt 


THE  SECRET  OF  GOD. 


6i 


; 


"We  were  told  by  the  toncUrge  thit  you  were  at 
home,  and  came  to  ask  for  your  ministry." 

"  Is  it  a  serious  case?"  asked  the  priest 

"  The  salvation  of  a  soul  is  at  stake." 

The  poor  priest  was  thoroughly  exhausted,  prostrate 
in  body  and  mind.  He  had  passed  through  one  of  those 
terrible  struggles  the  secrets  of  which  are  known  to  the 
ministers  of  God  alone. 

He  had  remained  for  five  hours  at  a  death-bed.  He 
had  disputed  a  soul  with  the  powers  of  darkness.  He 
had  wrestled  with  the  ungovernable  fear  of  death.  He 
had  prayed  and  implored  and  wept  by  turns;  to  soften  a 
stony  heart,  he  had  chosen  the  most  touching  and  most 
consoling  promises  of  Christ,  and  when  he  saw  that  they 
had  no  power  to  soften  nor  to  touch  ths  hapless  soul,  which 
was  then  in  its  agony,  he  had  called  down,  as  it  were,  the 
avenging  thunders  of  God,  brought  to  those  dying  cars 
the  s6und  of  the  angel's  trumpet,  pictured  all  the  horrors 
of  the  dreadful  valley,  opened  the  depths  of  the  abyss, 
and  showed  the  awful  vision  of  the  eternity  of  the 
damned.  Seized  with  affright,  the  dying  man  had 
clutched  the  priest,  as  the  drowning  clutch  the  object 
nearest  them,  and  begged  that  he  might  be  reconciled 
with  his  Judge.  The  priest  having  administered  the 
sacraments,  had  gently  and  gradually  calmed  the  wild 
terror  of  that  soul,  weighed  down  by  the  weight  of  its 
sins.  And  the  faithful  laborer  had  come  home;  the  day 
was  done,  the  sheaves  gathered  in,  and  he  was  about  to 
rest  from  those  toils,  which  are  like  unto  no  other  toils, 
when  the  two  men  waiting  for  him  said,  "The  salvation 
of  a  soul  is  at  stake."  v 

He  did  not  hesitate  a. moment.  ^ 

"  Let  us  go  at  once,"  he  said. 

"It  is  a  great  distance  from  here,"  said  Rat-<de-Cav^ 
"  so  we  have  brought  a  carriage." 


y 


IDOLS. 


"Very  well,"  said  the  priest,  as  he  knocked  at  the  glass 
door  of  the  conciergtrie  ;  it  was  opened,  they  passed  out, 

"Our  carriage  is  just  here,"  said  Rat-de-Cave. 

So  short  a  time  had  elapsed  since  they  went  into  the 
house  that  the  driver  merely  supposed  they  had  been 
waiting  for  the  third  person  who  now  accompanied  them. 
Rat-de-Cave  gave  an  address  which  the  priest  did  not 
hear,  and  the  carriage  drove  off.  No  one  sp^ke,  and  the 
abb6  read  his  breviary  in  a  low  voice.  After  a  while 
he  lost  all  count  of  the  various  streets  and  places  through 
which  they  passed.  However  the  carriage  stopped  with 
a  jerk,  and  aroused  Sulpice  from  the  drowsiness  which 
had  begun  to  steal  over  him.  He  felt  somewhat  rested, 
and  in  any  case,  the  idea  of  a  duty  to  be  performed  was 
new  life  to  him.  Rat-de-Cave  paid  and  dismissed  the 
driver.  Fleur  d'Echafaud  drew  back  the  bolt  from  a 
wretched  looking  door,  and  led  the  way  into  an  alley,  the 
priest  following  closely.  The  door  closed  behind  them 
with  a  bang,  and  Rat-de-Cave  lit  a  candle  in  a  copper 
candlestick,  which  seemed  to  have  been  left  in  readiness. 
They  went  upstairs;  the  house  was  squalid  and  evidently 
inhabited  by  very  poor  people.  On  they  went  to  the  very 
highest  story;  Rat-de-Cave  put  his  key  into  one  of  the 
doors  and  opened  it.  The  room  into  which  Sulpice  was 
now  ushered  was  so  large  that  the  feeble  light  of  a  candle 
at  the  far  end  by  no  means  dispelled  its  gloom.  The 
priest  indistinctly  perceived  a  bed  in  one  corner  sur- 
rounded by  dark  curtains. 

"  I  suppose  we  will  find  the  sick  person  here,"  he  said 
addressing  Fleur  d'Echafaud. 

That  worthy  made  no  reply;  but,  when  Rat-de-Cave 
had  locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  he 
said,  approaching  the  priest,  his  face  still  concealed  by 
the  mufBer, 

I  told  you  the  salvation  of  a  soul  was  at  stake,  but  I 
did  not  say  anything  about  a  sick  person." 


THE  SECRET  OF  GOD. 


63 


e  knocked  at  the  glass 
ened,  they  passed  out. 

Rat-de-Cave. 
ice  they  went  into  the 
posed  they  had  been 
}w  accompanied  them. 
:h  the  priest  did  not 
*Jo  one  sp^ke,  and  the 
voice.  After  a  while 
:ts  and  places  through 
carriage  stopped  with 
the  drowsiness  which 

felt  somewhat  rested, 
'  to  be  performed  was 
lid  and  dismissed  the 
back  the  bolt  from  a 

way  into  an  alley,  the 
r  closed  behind  them 
a  candle  in  a  copper 
been  left  in  readiness, 
i  squalid  and  evidently 

they  went  to  the  very 
s  key  into  one  of  the 
nto  which  Sulpice  was 
feeble  light  of  a  candle 
elled  its  gloom.  The 
d  in  one  corner  sur- 

:  person  here,"  he  said 

ut,  when  Rat-de-Cave 

key  in  his  pocket,  he 

face  still  concealed  by 

oul  was  at  stake,  but  I 
person." 


"A  sinner  is  a  sick  person,"  said  the  priest  gently, 
"at  least  to  us  spiritual  physicians.  But  in  what  way 
do  you  require  my  ministry?" 

"I  want  you  to  hear  my  confession." 

"  Here,  and  at  this  time  of  night?"  cried  the  priest  in 
astonishment. 

"  Here,  this  very  moment,"  replied  Rat-dc-Cave. 

"  But  you  seem  in  good  health,  my  friend,"  objected 
the  priest,  "and  I  do  not  see  any  necessity  for  administer- 
ing the  sacraments  in  this  room.  Why  do  you  not  come 
to  me  to-morrow,  at  the  church.?" 

"  Are  you  then  to  judge  the  hour  when  God  sees  fit  to 
touch  hearts?"  asked  the  other. 

"Far  from  it,"  replied  Sulpice.  "I  spoke  as  I  did  be- 
cause of  my  reverence  for  holy  things.  I  prefer,  except 
in  urgent  cases,  to  administer  the  sacraments  in  the 
sanctuary." 

The  abb6  really  spoke  from  a  conscientious  motive, 
but  he  was  moreover  influenced  unawares  by  that  dark 
presentiment  of  evil  which  sometimes  comes  to  us  upon 
the  eve  of  a  terrible  affliction.  He  overcame  a  sense  of 
doubt  and  fear,  in  view  of  the  duty  he  had  to  perform, 
and  said  to  Rat-de-Cave, 

"  I  am  ready  to  hear  your  confession." 

The  wretch  made  a  sign  to  his  companion  to  with- 
draw as  far  as  possible,  and  brought  a  chair  for  the 
priest. 

"  We  are  face  to  face  now,  as  man  to  man,"  said  he. 
"One  of  us  possesses  a  mysterious  power,  to  which  the 
other  appeals.  Whatever  I  say  to  the  man  he  is  free  to 
repeat.  When  does  the  office  of  priest  begin,  and  what 
is  the  precise  moment  at  which  he  is  obliged  to  listen 
without  semembering  or  at  least  without  making  any 
use  whatsoever  of  the  knowledge  so  gained?" 

"  Kneel  down,"  said  the  priest  solemnly,  "and  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross." 


c'  * 


I    If 


^ 


«l  IDOLS. 

Rat-dc-Cave  did  as  instructed. 

"  Rccke  the  Confiteor"  said  the  priest 

Rat-dc-Cave  dimly  remembered  such  a  prayer;  he 
mumbled  it  hastily,  and  the  abbe  Sulpice  continued, 

"  It  now  remains  for  you  to  say,  '  Father,  bless  me,  for 
I  have  sinned.' " 

Rat-de-Cave  shuddered;  he  was  trembling  in  every 
limb,  but  he  repeated  the  words  in  a  harsh,  guttural 
voice. 

"  Now,"  said  the  priest  in  a  tone  of  sweetness  and 
tenderness,  "now  you  may  speak,  for  in  this  solemn 
moment  it  is  no  longer  the  man  who  hears  you,  it  is 
Christ,  your  Judge  and  mine.  Confess  the  sins  which 
weigh  upon  your  heart;  relieve  your  conscience  of  its 
burden.  When  I  part  from  you  I  will  have  forgotten 
them;  you  will  be  my  brother,  and  you  can  count  upon 
my  silence,  as  I  count  upon  the  eternity  of  my  God." 

Once  more  the  words  of  the  priest  touched  the  hard- 
ened wretch,  but  he  overcame  the  momentary  weakness, 
and  proceeded  hastily: 

"Father,  at  your  feet,  before  God,  under  the  awful 
seal  of  confession,  which  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  violate, 
I  confess  that  I  have  this  night  stolen  a  hundred  thousand 
francs." 

"Ah  !"  said  the  priest,  "you  must  make  restitution." 

"That  is  not  all,"  said  Rat-de-Cave;  "the  owner  of 
the  money  bearing  a  noise  came  in,  I  struck  him—" 

"  Did  you  kill  him  ?"  cried  the  priest. 

"1  killed  him."  answered  Rat-de-Cave. 

"  Have  mercy  on  that  soul,  O  God,  my  God!"  cried  the 
priest;  "  receive,  O  Lord,  his  victim  Into  thy  bosom!  Be 
merciful  unto  him,  hurried  so  cruelly  into  eternity;  have 
pity  on  him,  have  pity  on  him  !" 

His  voice  was  choked  with  emotion,  but  Rat-de-C*ve 
continued: 


.,v:^:."ffi;yicat*,>! 


S^IS^v 


iest 

such  a  prayer;   he 
ulpice  continued, 
Father,  bless  me,  for 

trembling  in  every 
in  a  harsh,  guttural 

le  of  sweetness  and 
for  in  this  solemn 
vho  hears  you,  it  is 
ifess  the  sins  which 
ur  conscience  of  its 
will  have  forgotten 
you  can  count  upon 
nity  of  my  God." 
)t  touched  the  hard- 
lomentary  weakness, 

)d,  under  the  awful 
sacrilege  to  violate, 
a  hundred  thousand 

make  restitution." 
ave;  "the  owner  of 
[  struck  him — " 
;st. 

ave. 

my  God!"  cried  the 
nto  thy  bosom!    Be 

into  eternity;  have 

n,  biit  Rat-de-CAve 


THE  SECRET  OF  GOD. 


<s 


"  There  is  more  which  I  must  tell,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse, 
unnatural  voice. 

"  What  more,  my  God!  what  more  ?"  said  the  priest. 

"The  name  of  the  murdered  man,"  said  the  other. 

"  His  name  then,  if  you  so  desire,"  said  the  priest. 

"Antoinc  Pomereul,"  replied  the  murderer. 

Utterly  stricken  by  the  blow,  the  priest  rose,  a  mist 
floated  before  his  eyes,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  in  the 
form  of  a  cross,  and  fell  face  downwards  to  the  ground. 
Rat-de-Cave  stood  by  and  watched  him,  but  the  priest, 
remembering  the  agony  of  his  Saviour,  silently  endured, 
gave  no  sign.     He  thought  upon  another  day.  when  pros- 
trate thus,  he  had  renounced  the  world,  its  passions,  its 
desires,  its  ambition;  a  day  when  he  had  died  that  he  might 
live,  in  short  the  day  upon  which  he  had  taken  his  vows. 
And  now  the  whole  extent  of  his  duty  was  before  him; 
the  struggle  between  the  son  and  the  priest.    He  knew 
that  the  murderer  of  his  father  stood  by  him,  laden  with 
the  spoils,  reddened  with  the  victim's  blood,  and  he,  the 
priest,  had  no  right  to  remember  even  what  had  passed, 
when  once  he  had  set  foot  across  the  threshold  of  that 
house.     He  might  not  bring  the  criminal  to  justice, 
though  the  dearest  interests  of  society  demanded  that  it 
should  be  done.    A  wretch  acting  a  horrible  and  sacri- 
legious comedy,  in  addition  to  that  terrible  tragedy,  had 
taken  refuge  under  the  secret  of  the  confessional,  and 
could  now  rest  in  impunity.     The  priest  must  be  deaf 
to  justice,  he  must  forget  the  very  voice  of  that  man, 
and  if  before  others  he  met  him  face  to  face,  must  feign 
forgetfulness.    For  an  hour  he  lay  in  a  sort  of  uncon- 
sciousness, which  did  not  bring  him  ease  from  ^.  ;r» 
Ever  and  anon  he  murmured, 
"  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 
Meanwhile  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  throwing  himself  updn 
the  bed,  went  to  sleep.    Rat-de-Cave  sat  upon  ;  iie  edge 


'    'i? 


■  of. 

.  .'i'i.i 


■i«^,> 


-''v^  '.,mm 


NHiMMi 


y^ 


66 


IDOLS. 


of  the  table,  waiting  till  Sulpice  should  find  strength 
to  rise.  By  an  effort  the  abb6  at  length  raised  himself 
upon  his  knees,  and  holding  by  the  chimney-piece,  got 
upon  his  feet. 

Rat-de-Cave,  now  no  lon^fer  afraid  of  recognition  from 
the  priest,  had  thrown  aside  his  handkerchief  and  great- 
coat. He  wore  a  blue  blouse  open  at  the  neck,  so  that 
the  cruel  and  even  brutal  expression  of  his  face  was 
revealed  in  all  its  repulsiveness.  Then  for  the  first  time 
the  abb6  saw  his  face.  He  thought  he  was  mistaken, 
made  a  step  forward  and  stopped. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  said  the  wretch;  "I,  Jean  Machfl,  who 
once  asked  you  for  a  night's  lodging  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Brest." 

"Ah!"  said  the  priest;  " is  this  how  you  have  kept  the 
promise  made  to  me  that  stormy  night  ?  I  saved  you  by 
my  silence,  and  I  find  you  now  the  murderer  of  my 
father." 

The  abb6  seemed  to  have  somewhat  recovered  his 
strength;  he  continued: 

"  Well,  whatever  you  have  done,  or  whatever  has  come 
to  my  knowledge,  I  am  now  sworn  to  secrecy,  so  let  me 
go. 
"  Not  yet,"  said  Rat-de-Cave. 

"Why  add  such  unnecessary  cruelty  to  your  crimes?" 
said  the  priest;  "  let  me  go  home.  The  victim  may  be 
still  alive,  do  you  hear,  he  may  be  still  alive;  in  the  hurry 
of  the  moment  you  may  have  mistaken  unconsciousness 
for  death.  Let  me  go,  Jean  Machfi,  my  father's  dying 
voice  seems  to  call  me." 
"  He  is  dead  beyond  all  doubt,"  said  Rat-de-Cave. 
"Be  it  so  then,"  cried  the  priest,  in  a  voice  fiiU  of 
anguish.  "  If  ihe  soul  has  indeed  left  that  beloved  form, 
my  place  is  at  its  side,  if  not  to  save  him,  at  least  to  keep 
my  vigil  nea.-  his  corpse.    I  am  a  priest;  I  will  be  silf  nt 


should  find  strength 
length  raised  himself 
he  chimney-piece,  got 

id  of  recognition  from 
indkerchief  and  great- 
n  at  the  neck,  so  that 
sion  of  his  face  wms 
rhen  for  the  first  time 
jht  he  was  mistaken, 

"I,  Jean  Machd,  who 
ng  somewhere  in  the 

ow  you  have  kept  the 
ight  ?  I  saved  you  by 
the  murderer  of  my 

lewhat   recovered  his 

or  whatever  has  come 
I  to  secrecy,  so  let  me 

elty  to  your  crimes?" 
The  victim  may  be 
till  alive;  in  the  hurry 
aken  unconsciousness 
lii,  my  father's  dying 

said  Rat-de-Cave. 
It,  in  a  voice  fiiU  of 
sft  that  beloved  form, 
I  him,  at  least  to  keep 
riest;  I  will  be  silent 


rtatMftMi-i.i^xt' 


THE  SECRET  OF  GOD. 


67 


but  I  am  a  man,  and  I  have  met  with  a  terrible  affliction. 
You  have  robbed  me  of  what  I  held  dearest  upon  earth, 
and  I  implore  you,  for  wretch  though  you  be,  you  had  a 
father,  a  mother,  some  one  whom  you  loved.  Once  you 
were  good  perhaps;  ah,  Jean  Machfi,  let  me  go !" 

"I  cannot,"  said  Rat-de-Cave,  "and  even  if  I  were 
willing,  my  comrade  would  not  be." 

The  priest  clasped  his  hands  once  more  in  supplica- 
tion. Vain  appeal;  he  saw  and  felt  it.  Then  by  one 
of  those  miracles  of  zeal,  known  to  the  hearts  of  apostles, 
the  priest  dried  his  tears,  and  bade  his  sorrow  be  silent. 

"  Jean  Machd,"  he  said,  "  if  I  must  pass  the  hours  of 
this  terrible  night  with  you,  I  may  at  least  spend  them 
as  I  will  ?"    The  other  bent  his  head  in  token  of  assent. 

"  I  will  speak  to  you,  then,  of  the  past,"  said  Sulpice, 
"not  to  reproach  you,  but  as  one  may  recall  old 
memories  to  another.  Seven  years  ago  I  made  a  pil- 
grimage to  Brittany;  I  remained  for  some  time  after 
recruiting  my  strength  in  a  poor  hut  upon  the  sea-shore, 
and  also  preparing  some  work  for  the  following  winter. 
One  night  such  a  storm  was  raging  as  is  sometimes  seen 
upon  the  coast  of  Armorica,  with  its  lofty  crags  and 
tremendous  waves.  It  was  very  late;  I  was  still  writing, 
when  a  loud  knock  came  to  the  door.  I  opened  it;  a 
man  half  clad  and  in  miserably  thin  garments  rushed 
into  the  cabin  dripping  wet,  slammed  the  door,  and 
stood  against  it,  as  if  afraid  of  being  driven  out  again 
into  the  storm.  A  furious  gale  was  blowing;  the  peals 
of  thunder  were  loud  and  prolonged;  the  waves  dashed 
fiercely  against  the  rocks  and  were  hurled  back  with 
terrific  clamor.     It  was  a  fearful  night" 

Jean  MachA  clasped  his  hands  and  rested  them  upon 
his  knees. 

"The  man,"  continued  the  priest,  "who  then  came 
into  the  cabin  was  exhausted;  I  offered  him  wine,  I 


/^ 


fl 


68 


IDOLS. 


h; 


4 


gave  him  dry  clothing,  and  my  own  bed  in  which  to 
sleep.  All  at  once  I  heard  a  sound  rising,  as  it  were, 
above  the  warring  elements.  I  recognized  the  noise. 
'  It  is  cannon,'  I  said, '  it  certainly  is  cannon.'  Trembling 
in  every  limb,  and  shuddering  violently,  the  stranger 
listened.  He  too  knew  the  signal,  a  convict  had  escaped 
from  the  galleys.  They  were  in  pursuit  of  him.  I 
looked  at  him,  terror  was  in  his  face,  his  lips  trembled,  he 
sank  upon  his  knees,  and  cried  out  to  me  in  his  distress, 
'  You  can  save  me  ! '  I  was  placed  between  society,  which 
on  the  one  hand  demanded  that  he  should  be  given  up, 
and  a  poor  creature  who,  on  the  other,  cried  to  me  for 
mercy.  I  listened  to  that  voice.  I  kept  the  guest  whom 
Providence  had  sent  me  under  my  roof,  and  cared  for 
him.  And  while  he  slept,  I  wrote  a  paraphrase  upon 
the  words  of  Scripture,  '  There  is  more  joy  in  Heaven 
over  one  sinner  who  repents,  than  for  ninety-nine  just.' 

I  went  to  the  village  next  morning,  procured  some 
clothing  for  him  from  a  fisherman,  and  at  nightfall  Jean 
Machd,  the  escaped  convict,  left  my  house  by  stealth. 
Before  departing,  he  had  sworn  to  lead  an  honest  life,  nor 
was  he  without  the  means  of  so  doing;  for,  besides  my 
little  savings,  I  gave  him  a  letter  of  recommendation  to 
a  relative  of  mine  who  had  large  fisheries  in  Brittany, 
and  who  would  have  employed  him  at  my  request  Have 
I  told  the  truth  ?" 

"  You  have,"  answered  Rat-dft-Cave. 

"  Now  I  meet  him  again,"  continued  the  priest,  "  not 
as  then,  protesting  his  innocence  of  the  petty  theft  with 
which  he  was  charged,  but  avowedly  laden  with  an  hon- 
est man's  gold,  and  stained  with  his  blood  !" 

"  Ah!"  cried  Jean  MachQ,  "  the  tiger  will  remain  a  tiger, 
in  spite  of  the  gentleness  of  the  lamb." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  it  ?"  cried  the  priest.  •'  In  the 
name  of  that  God  who  sees  and  hears  us,  I  declare  and 


THE  SECRET  OF  GOD. 


1  bed  in  which  to 

rising,  as  it  were, 

agnized  the  noise. 

nnon.'    Trembling 

sntly,  the  stranger 

onvict  had  escaped 

»ursuit  of  him.     I 

lis  lips  trembled,  he 

me  in  his  distress, 

veen  society,  which 

lould  be  given  up, 

er,  cried  to  me  for 

pt  the  guest  whom 

oof,  and  cared  for 

I  paraphrase  upon 

ore  joy  in  Heaven 

•  ninety-nine  just' 

ig,  procured  some 

d  at  nightfall  Jean 

house  by  stealth. 

an  honest  life,  nor 

for,  besides  my 

^commendation  to 

eries  in  Brittany, 

my  request  Have 


the  priest, "  not 
e  petty  theft  with 
aden  with  an  hon* 
ood!" 
ill  remain  a  tiger, 

priest.    "  In  the 
us,  I  declare  and 


maintain  the  contrary.  Sooner  or  later  the  gentleness  of 
the  lamb  triumphs  over  the  cowardly  ferocity  of  the 
tiger.  A  drop  of  water  suffices  to  penetrate  rock;  so, 
too,  a  tear  suffices  to  melt  the  heart  of  a  criminal.  You 
called  me  hither,  and  I  came.  You  said,  '  Here  is  a  soul 
to  be  saved,'  and  I  demand  that  soul  of  you.  You  have 
marred  my  earthly  happiness;  I  am  eager  to  secure  your 
eternal  welfare.  You  have  deprived  me  of  a  father;  let 
me  restore  your  God  to  you." 

Rat-de-Cave  bent  forward,  as  if  scarce  believing  the 
testimony  of  his  senses. 

"  A  moment  ago,"  continued  the  priest,  "  you  knelt  be- 
fore n.c,  in  a  sacrilegious  travesty  of  a  sacred  and  mys- 
terious rite;  you  claimed  the  privileges  of  a  repentant 
sinner  for  one  hardened  in  the  ways  of  iniquity.  This 
pardon  I  freely  promised  you;  I  blessed  you  that  you 
might  have  strength  to  open  your  heart  to  me.  Kneel 
to  me  again,  I  implore  you,  not  to  secure  my  silence, 
which  is  already  yours,  but  to  cry  out  from  the  depths 
of  your  heart,  and  not,  as  before,  from  the  lips  alone, 
'  Father,  I  have  sinned;'  to  bend  your  head  beneath  the 
hand  of  the  priest,  who  will  absolve  you  '  in  the  name  of 
the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.' " 

So  noble  and  so  lofty  were  the  words  and  gestures  of 
the  priest,  and  such  was  the  authority  with  which  he 
spoke,  that  Jean  Machfi  felt  his  heart  fail  him.  He  could 
not  understand  the  source  whence  the  Abb6  Sulpice 
drew  his  magnanimity  and  his  eloquence,  but  he  was 
overcome  by  them. 

At  last  he  stammered, 

"  But  I  have  robbed  your  father — robbed  you !" 

"  And  you  do  not  wish  to  lose  the  price  of  your  crime? 
Be  it  so.  I  freely  give  you  the  hundred  thousand  francs 
you  have  stolen  to-night  They  will  be  deducted  from 
my  share  of  the  inheritance." 


:«*,**waitea*!fe<*i«iiaa^*!i-«i«-**    t^-^mmKmmmimmeiMmmmmiitiiitmiim 


/^ 


70 


IDOLS. 


:   :| 


».r    ' 


1  -J 


"You  will  give  them  to  me  freely  and  without  re- 
proach, as  if  I  had  earned  them  honestly  ?"  asked  Rat-de- 
Cave  in  amazement. 

"  Henceforth  they  are  your  own,"  said  the  priest;  "I 
repeat  that  I  freely  give  them  to  you.  If  poverty  has 
led  you  to  crime,  you  are  now  forever  safe  from  want. 
But  what  you  have  already  confessed  to  me,  with  mock- 
ery so  cruel,  repeat  now,  I  beseech  you,  in  sincerity.  Let 
my  grief  and  my  tears  supply  for  your  imperfect  repent- 
ance; but  at  least  reflect  what  an  awful  deed  it ''is  to  take 
a  human  life,  to  send  a  fellow-creature,  full  of  life  and 
happiness,  out  of  the  world;  to  make  orphans;  to  bring 
mourning  and  misery  to  a  happy  home.  See,  I  am 
weeping ;  will  you  look  on  with  dry  eyes  ?  I  have 
compassion  on  your  soul;  will  you  not  g^ive  a  thought  to 
its  salvation  ?  My  friend,  my  brother,  by  the  God  who 
died  on  the  cross,  I  entreat  you  to  confess  your  sins  and 
ask  pardon  for  them." 

"  Oh,  come,  come !"  cried  a  mocking  voice  from  the 
other  end  of  the  room;  "  next  thing  you  will  be  crying 
like  a  woman,  Rat-de-Cave." 

It  was  Fieur  d'Echafaud  who  spoke.  He  had  been 
awake  for  some  time,  and  listening  to  the  interview  be- 
tween Jean  Mach(^  and  the  priest. 

"  Hold  up  now,  old  boy,"  he  continued,  still  address- 
ing his  companion; ''  you  are  on  dangerous  ground.  As 
for  you,  my  fine  abb6, 1  do  full  justice  to  your  eloquence, 
and  if  ever  the  Sorbonne  is  threatened  I  would  back  you 
against  all  odds  to  set  it  right  again.  Just  now,  though, 
your  oratory  is  unseasonable.  It  is  all  very  fine  to  have 
saved  that  brute,  Rat-de-Cave,  and  to  forget  what  he 
has  told  you  is  still  better;  but  -  that  he  should  be  so 
much  affected  by  your  preaching  as  to  goto  confession — 
I  say,  no,  by  Jupiter !  He  is  not  alone  in  this  affair,  and 
must  share  with  me." 


».rM«t! 


THE  SECRET  OF  GOD. 


71 


eely  and  without  re- 
estly  ?"  asked  Rat-de- 

"  said  the  priest;  "  I 
you.  If  poverty  has 
ever  safe  from  want, 
ed  to  me,  with  mock- 
jrou,  in  sincerity.  Let 
our  imperfect  repent- 
vful  deed  it^is  to  take 
tare,  full  of  life  and 
ke  orphans;  to  bring 
y  home.  See,  I  am 
1  dry  eyes  ?  I  have 
not  give  a  thought  to 
her,  by  the  God  who 
onfess  your  sins  and 

king  voice  from  the 
r  you  will  be  crying 

poke.  He  had  been 
to  the  interview  be- 

tinued,  still  address- 
igerous  ground.  As 
»  to  your  eloquence, 
ed  I  would  back  you 
.  Just  now,  though, 
all  very  fine  to  have 
1  to  forget  what  he 
lat  he  should  be  so 
to  go  to  confession — 
me  in  this  affair,  and 


"  If  that  is  all — "  began  the  priest,  eagerly. 

"  Enough  disinterestedness  for  one  day,"  interrupted 
Fleurd'Echafaud;  "  it  is  almost  sunrise.  We  must  get 
out  of  here,  but  we  will  not  take  you  home  just  yet.  I 
will  call  a  carriage;  you  will  get  in  with  Rat-de-Cave, 
and,  as  I  know  all  the  roads,  I  will  drive.  We  will  go 
about  for  four  hours  or  so,  and  at  eight  o'clock  I  will 
bring  you  back  to  Paris.  Meantime  you  need  not  try 
to  soften  me;  it  is  useless.  Like  green  wood,  I  do  not 
kindle." 

This  man's  intervention  had  quickly  dispelled  the  mo- 
mentary impression  made  upon  Rat-de-Cave  by  the  words 
of  the  priest,  so  that,  when  Fleur  d'Echafaud  had  gone 
for  a  carriage,  and  they  \yere  alone  together,  Sulpice 
found  him  once  more  as  hard  iSind  cold  as  marble.  See- 
ing his  efforts  unavailing,  the  abb6  knelt  down  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room  and  began  to  pray. 

The  sound  of  carriage-wheels  told  Rat-de-Cave  of  his 
comrade's  return. 

He  went  over  and  touched  the  priest  on  the  shoulder, 
saying,  "Come." 

They  went  down  the  dark  stairs  together,  and  the 
priest,  who  could  admit  of  no  compromise  with  his  con- 
science, was  purposely  as  unobservant  as  possible,  fearing 
to  see  anything  which  might  make  him  remember  the 
place;  and  once  out  in  the  street,  he  glanced  neither  at 
the  house  nor  at  its  number.  Without  a  word  of  re- 
monstrance, or  an  attempt  at  resistance,  he  got  into  the 


carriage, 


which  Fleur  d'Echafaud  was  to  drive. 


Fleur  d'Echafaud,  unlike  his  companion,  had  never 
permitted  the  priest  to  see  his  face.  He  kept  his  hai 
drawn  down  over  his  eyes,  and  was  so  disguised-  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  recognize  him  again.  They 
drove  about  for  four  hours,  sometimes  passing  over  hard 
pavements,  or  macadamized   roads,  going  in  and    out 


« 


^J^'.i^^lJV^  -^ 


^ 


7a 


IDOLS. 


among  the  suburbs,  or  round  and  round  in  a  circle,  that 
the  abb6  might  have  a  confused  idea  of  the  way  by 
which  they  had  come,  and  in  all  probability  be  unable  to 
remember  it 

When  day  broke,  Rat-de-Cave  pulled  down  the  win- 
dow-blinds. Meanwhile  the  priest  prayed  on  in  a  low 
voice,  waiting  till  this  last  act  in  the  drama  should  be 
accomplished. 

At  eight  by  his  watch,  Fleur  d'Echafaud  was  driving 
along  by  the  Palais  Royal.  He  pursued  his  way  as  far 
as  the  Chauss6e  d'Antin.  Stopping  at  the  most  deserted 
side  of  the  new  opera-house,  he  opened  the  carriage* 
door,  and  said  to  the  priest, 

"  Get  out  now;  you  are  almost  at  home." 

Sulpice  got  out 

"  Adieu,"  said  Rat-de-Cave  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  Au  revoir,"  said  the  abb6,  in  a  low  and  feeble  one. 

Tottering,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  lean  against  a 
wall  for  support,  the  priest  went  home. 

"  It  is  queer,"  said  Rat-de-Cave,  addressing  his  com- 
panion; "we  are  strong,  of  course,  but  there  goes  one 
who  is  stronger  than  either  of  us." 


1.1  II- 
til 


i 


■f., 


p!i^}ir:>iis:<is 


■»■;  i_a.  ■.  J:  I**™ 


■ound  in  a  circle,  tliat 
idea  of  the  way  by 
^bability  be  unable  to 

lilled  down  the  win- 
prayed  on  in  a  low 
he  drama  should  be 

chafaud  was  driving 
sued  his  way  as  far 
at  the  most  deserted 
pened  the  carriage- 
home." 

usky  voice. 

)w  and  feeble  one. 

i  to  lean  against  a 

ne. 

iddressing  his  com- 

but  there  goes  one 


THE  ACCUSATION.  /J 

CHAPTER  VL 
The  Accusation. 

The  Abb6  Sulpice  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  father's 
house.  A  great  crowd  had  collected  about  it.  The 
Chauss^e  d'Antin  in  that  vicinity  was  thronged  with 
people.     The  fatal  news  of  a  crime  soon  spreads. 

At  six  o'clock  that  morning  M.  Pomereul's  man  had 
come  down  with  duster  and  broom,  to  do  his  master's 
study  as  usual.  On  the  threshold  he  was  arrested  by  a 
terrible  spectacle. 

Stretched  upon  the  ground,  with  distorted  features  and 
protruding  eyes,  lay  M.  Pomereul,  in  all  the  rigidity  of 
death.  Clots  of  blood  stained  his  clothing  and  his  face. 
Near  him  the  man  heard  a  feeble  moanin'^.  It  was  Lipp- 
Lapp  pressing  his  gaping  wound  willi  his  hand,  drag- 
ging himself  feebly  towards  his  master,  and  weeping 
after  his  fashion.  Baptiste's  first  thought  was  to  see 
if  there  was  any  life  in  the  body.  Ascertaining  the 
contrary,  he  called  the  butler,  the  concierge,  and  Sabine's 
maid. 

"A  dreadful  deed  has  been  done,"  he  cried;  "M. 
Pomereul  was  murdered  last  night.  I..et  us  keep  Mile. 
Sabine  from  seeing  this  horrible  sight.  The  police  must 
be  notified,  and  the  deposition  taken  before  M.  Xavier 
awakes." 

The  butler  went  for  the  magistrate  and  for  a  doctor. 
In  about  an  hour  the  police  commissioners  were  upon 
the  scene.  The  examining  magistrate  installed  uimself 
in  the  study,  and  dictated  to  his  secretary  an  official 
report  of  the  position  in  which  the  body  was  found.  The 
evidence  of   theft  was  manifest    The  murderer  had 


Vt'-*mm 


iiMii 


/^ 


74 


IDOLS. 


emptied  the  safe,  and  probably  had  not  thought  of 
murder,  till  M.  Pomereul's  interference  had  decided  his 
fate.  This  first  duty  accomplished,  the  doctor  made  his 
statement. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  addressing  the  magistrate,  "from  the 
ti-aces  of  blood  on  the  face  and  clothing  of  the  deceased, 
I  was  led  to  believe  that  he  had  received  a  wound  from 
some  blunt  instrument  which  had  fractured  a  portion  of 
the  skull.  But  having  washed  away  the  blood,  I  can 
discover  no  wound,  except  a  mere  scratch;  the  tumefac- 
tion of  the  face,  and  the  finger  marks  upon  the  neck,  are 
indisputable  proofs  that  he  came  to  his  death  by  strangu- 
lation." 
"  But  the  blood  ?" 

"  Is  that  of  the  ape,  who  has  received  two  wounds, 
inflicted  by  a  three-sided  dagger;  one  in  the  shoulder 
and  one  in  the  breast." 
"What  is  your  conclusion,  doctor?" 
"  I  will  suppose  the  occurrence  to  have  been  as  follows: 
M.  Pomereul  discovers  the  burglar  and  rushes  upon  him. 
The  burglar  seized  M.  Pomereul  by  the  throat,  Lipp-Lapp 
interfered,  anxious   to   save   his   master,  and   the   poor 
brute  was  rewarded  for  his  humanity  and  intelligence 
by  these  two  wounds.     The  murderer  fled,  Lipp-Lapp, 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  wound,  dragged  himself  towards 
his  master.     He  put  his  hand  upon  the  body,  and  upon 
the  head,  and  that  is  how  we  find  the  bloody  marks 
upon  clothing  and  face."    ' 
"  Then  will  you  write  out  your  report,  doctor?" 
"  Yes,  and  I  have  dressed  Lipp-Lapp's  wound,"  said 
the  physician.      "I  am  of  those  who  believe  that  the 
instinct  of  brutes  is  often  wonderfully  illustrated.     No 
clue  must  be  lost  in  such  a  case  as  this.     One  thing 
strikes  me  forcibly." 
"What?"  asked  the  magistrate. 
t 


M'A- 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


n 


had  not  thought  of 
rence  had  decided  his 
1,  the  doctor  made  his 

magistrate,  "  from  the 
'thing  of  the  deceased, 
jceived  a  wound  from 
fractured  a  portion  of 
way  the  blood,  I  can 
scratch;  the  tumefac- 
rks  upon  the  neck,  are 
)  his  death  by  strangu- 


received  two  wounds, 
one  in  the  shoulder 

r?" 

>  have  been  as  follows: 
and  rushes  upon  him. 
the  throat,  Lipp-Lapp 
laster,  and  the  poor 
nity  and  intelligence 
erer  fled,  Lipp-Lapp, 
gged  himself  towards 
I  the  body,  and  upon 
id  the  bloody  marks 

iport,  doctor?" 
Lapp's  wound,"  said 
rho  believe  that  the 
fully  illustrated.     No 
as  this.    One  thing 


"This,"  answered  the  doctor,  placing  a  tuft  of  red 
hair  covered  with  blood  before  the  magistrate. 

"What  is  it r 

"  It  is  hair.  A  tuft  of  fiery  red  hair,  which  Lipp-Lapp 
held  in  his  clenched  fingers.  In  his  extreme  suffering 
he  held  it  fast,  and  pressing  the  hand  which  contained  it 
to  his  breast,  dyed  it  a  deeper  red  in  his  own  blood. 
Staunching  the  wound  with  it  may  have  saved  the 
brute's  life." 

The  piece  of  hair  was  consequently  sealed  and  put 
aside,  with  anything  else  that  could  be  used  in  evidence. 
The  magistrate,  out  of  consideration  for  the  children  of 
the  deceased,  would  not  permit  them  to  be  called  till  the 
examination  was  over.  Both  Sabine  and  Xavier  were 
still  asleep,  and  the  Abb6  Sulpice  bad  not  yet  returned  as 
it  was  only  seven  o'clock.  The  examination  of  the  ser- 
vants was  very  brief.  None  of  them  knew  anything  of 
the  crime,  and  could  therefore  throw  no  light  on  the 
subject.  The  concierge  was  the  only  one  who  could  give 
any  information. 

But  the  fact  was  that  when  Rat-de-Cave  and  Fleur 
d'Echafaud  had  rung  the  bell,  that  functionary,  sleeping 
profoundly  at  his  post,  dimly  remembered  to  have  heard 
the  abb6's  name  pronounced. 

His  replies  to  the  questions  put  him  were  as  follows: 
The  bell  rang.  I  answered.  A  voice  asked  for  the  Abb£ 
Pomereul.  I  supposed  he  was  in  and  said,  Go  up. 
Almost  immediately  after  the  abb6  came  to  the  door. 
He  must  have  met  the  men-who  had  asked  for  hiih  on 
the  stairs,  for  they  all  went  out  together. 

"  Is  the  Abb£  Pomereul  in  ?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"No,  sir." 

"You  will  let  us  know  when  he  comes.  You  can 
retire." 

"  Does  it  not  seem  to  you,"  said  the  other  magistrate, 


^ 


76 


IDOLS. 


"that  the  proper  person  to  inform  Mile.  Pomereul 
and  her  brother  of  the  terrible  affliction  which  has  be- 
fallen  them  is  the  Abb^  Sulpice  ?  His  sacred  character 
of  priest  will  enable  him  to  break  it  to  them  as  we  could 
not  do.  He  will  console  them;  he  will  bid  them  rais»> 
their  eyes  to  Heaven,  instead  of  directing  them  to  earth." 
The  other  reflected  a  moment,  then  said: 
"  It  will  be  more  humane,  and  besides  it  will  be  easier 
for  us." 

Baptiste  was  summoned.  Like  the  other  servants,  he 
slept  on  the  fourth  floor  of  the  house,  and  was  utterly 
ignorant  of  all  details  of  the  terrible  drama  which  had 
been  enacted  that  fatal  night.  His  deposition  was  uken, 
and  the  magistrate  said: 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  in  the  service  of  the  family  ? 
Your  young  master,  the  abh6,  will  soon  be  in.  Tell  him 
all,  and  let  him  prepare  his  brother  and  sister  to  obey 
our  summons." 

The  magistrate  sat  down  at  the  desk  upon  which  they 
had  placed: 

ist.  The  bunch  of  keys  belonsfing  to  the  murdered  man. 

ad.  The  tuft  of  bloody  hair  .c  and  in  Lipp-Lapp's  hand. 

3d.  A  piece  of  fine  linen,  evidently  torn  in  the  struggle, 
and  which  had  been  found  near  the  door  of  the  safe. 

The  examining  magistrate,  M.  Gaubert,  was  somewhere 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  tall  and  sparely  built,  with  a 
high  broad  forehead,  a  bald  head,  a  slender  nose  with 
dilating  nostrils,  thin,  bloodless  lips,  and  pale  face.  His 
eyes  were  bright  and  unusually  penetrating,  and  their 
,  expression  was  so  searching  that  it  seemed  to  read  one's 
V  very  soul.  M.  Gaubert  was  indefatigable  in  the  discharge 
of  his  professional  duties,  wherein  he  displayed  remarka- 
ble judgment  and  energy.  The  strictest  integrity  charac- 
terized his  decisions.  Nothing  could  either  influence  or 
soften  them.    But  it  was  scarcely  his  fault  that  this  con- 


'4 


)rtn  Mile.  Pomereul 
iction  which  has  be- 
His  sacred  character 
t  to  them  as  we  could 
:  will  bid  them  raise 
acting  them  to  earth." 
:n  said: 
:sides  it  will  be  easier 

the  other  servants,  he 
3use,  and  was  utterly 
L)le  drama  which  had 
deposition  was  taken, 

service  of  the  family  ? 
(>oon  be  in.  Tell  him 
sr  and  sister  to  obey 

iesk  upon  which  they 

to  the  murdered  man. 

in  Lipp-Lapp's  hand. 

torn  in  the  struggle, 

door  of  the  safe. 

ibert,  was  somewhere 

parely  built,  with  a 

a  slender  nose  with 

and  pale  face.    His 

netrating,  and  their 

seemed  to  read  one's 

;able  in  the  discharge 

displayed  remarka- 
test  integrity  charac- 

either  influence  or 
i  fault  that  this  con- 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


77 


stant  contact  with  criminals  had  left  him  but  little  con- 
fidence in  his  fellows. 

The  other  magistrate  or  police  commissioner,  M.  Obry, 
was  a  totally  different  person.  Though  still  young  he  was 
already  eminent  in  his  profession,  and  endowed  withaclear 
head  and  a  certain  aptitude  for  literature.  Hu  saw  fewer 
criminals  than  his  brother  magistrate  and  more  unfortu- 
nates. Under  the  brazen  shield  of  a  magistrate  he  still 
kept  a  loving  heart  and  one  susceptible  of  great  tend  r- 
ness. 

Whilst  these  gentlemen  were  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duties  Sulpice  Pomereul  came  staggering  home.  We 
have  said  that  he  had  observed  from  afar  the  crowd 
which  had  gathered  round  the  house.  When  they  rec- 
ognized the  young  priest,  the  groups  of  curious  men  and 
women  made  way  for  him  with  mingled  pity  and  rever- 
ence. 

"  Ah,  how  dreadful  for  him  !"  cried  one;  "  he  loved  his 
father  so  much." 

"The  Abb6  Sulpice  is  a  saint,"  cried  another;  "why 
has  God  stricken  him  so  cruelly  ?" 

"  To  make  him  even  more  perfect."  said  still  another. 

"  Look  how  pale  he  is.  He  has  come  no  doubt  from 
the  bedside  of  the  dying,  and  O  my  God  !  think  of  what 
is  before  him." 

Whilst  these  questions  and  exclamations  were  passing 
amongrst  the  eager  crowd,  Sulpice  went  up  the  steps;  he 
grasped  the  balustrade;  he  tottered.  He  rang  the  bell 
with  feverish  agitation.  Baptiste  opened  the  door. 
Scarcely  had  he  entered  the  hall,  when  the  good  old  ser- 
vant fell  sobbing  at  his  feet. 

"  My  master,  my  dear  young  master,"  cried  he.  "-have 
courage." 

**  My  father?"  stammered  Sulpice. 

"  Come,  come  and  see  him,  come  and  pray." 


^ 


iimiWir-a 


^ 


79  IDOLS. 

Baptiste  led  or  almost  dragged  the  young  pticst  into 
his  father's  room. 

The  body  of  the  victim  lay  on  the  bed;  a  reverent  hand 
had  covered  the  swollen  face  with  a  handkerchief.  Sul- 
pice  raised  the  cloth  and  looked. 

With  clasped  hands  and  breaking  heart  he  prostrated 
himself  beside  the  bed.  At  first  only  sobs,  then  prayer 
rose  slowly  from  his  heart  to  his  lips,  and  gradually  a 
sort  of  calm  succeeded  the  storm  of  his  terrible  anguish. 
When  Sulpice  felt  himself  strong  enough  to  meet  the 
others,  he  said  to  Baptiste, 

"  Sabine  ?" 

"  Mile.  Sabine  has  not  appeared  yet. 

A  moment  after  Sulpice  was  in  his  sister's  room.  The 
young  girl's  apartments,  separated  from  her  father's  by 
a  parlor,  dining-room,  and  boudoir,  were  still  so  far  dis- 
tant that  she  had  not  heard  any  noise,  either  during  the 
night,  nor  in  the  early  morning  hours.  Besides  there  was 
often  so  much  noise  in  the  house,  that  a  few  comers  or 
goers  more  or  less  never  disturbed  her.  She  always  re- 
mained in  her  own  rooms  till  the  breakfast  hour,  which 
was  ten  o'clock.  At  that  time  she  went  down  and  found 
her  father  in  the  dining-room.  Xavier  sometimes  joined 
them,  but  rarely;  and  as  for  Sulpice,  the  monastic  fru- 
gality of  his  life  forbade  him  to  partake  of  this  first  meal. 
When  no  duties  interfered,  he  usually  came  down  after 
breakfast  for  a  half  hour's  chat  with  his  father  and  Sa- 
bine. Until  breakfast  time,  Sabine  usually  occupied  her- 
self with  some  sewing  or  fancy  work.  She  had  just 
finished  dressing  when  Sulpice  came  in.  Sab-ne  uttered 
a  cry,  for  she  saw  the  traces  of  tears  on  his  face. 

"  Ah  !     What  has  happened  ?"  she  cried. 

Then  remembering  what  her  brother  had  said  the  night 
before,  she  fixed  terror-stricken  eyes  upon  Sulpice,  saying 
simply, 


, 


•• 


the  young  pticst  into 

bed;  a  reverent  hand 
a  handkerchief.    Sul- 

g  heart  he  prostrated 
tnly  sobs,  then  prayer 

lips,  and  gradually  a 
f  his  terrible  anguish. 

enough  to  meet  the 


ret. 

is  sister's  room.     The 

from  her  father's  by 
,  were  still  so  far  dis- 
)ise,  either  during  the 
•s.  Besides  there  was 
that  a  few  comers  or 

her.  She  always  re- 
)reakfast  hour,  which 
ivent  down  and  found 
ricr  sometimes  joined 
ice,  the  monastic  fru- 
take  of  this  first  meal, 
illy  came  down  after 
ith  his  father  and  Sa- 
usually  occupied  her- 
irork.  She  had  just 
le  in.  Sab'ne  uttered 
s  on  his  face. 
i  cried. 
!ier  had  said  the  night 

upon  Sulpice,  saying 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


79 


"Xavier?" 

"He  knows  nothing  of  It  as  yet,"  answered  Sulpice. 

"You  are  weeping.  Xavier  knows  nothing— then 
something  has  happened,  and  in  this  house.  Something » 
but  what?  Ah,"  said  she,  with  a  terrible  cry  of  an- 
guish,  "  my  father  !" 

"  My  sister  !  Sabine,  my  dearest  Sabine,"  cried  Sulpice, 
supporting  her  half-feinting  form.  "  God  is  the  master! 
He  has  given,  and  has  taken  away." 

"Taken  away,"  cried  she,  "taken  away,  and  suddenly 
like  this,  without  any  warning  sickness,  without  any 
alternatives  of  hope  and  fear  to  prepare  us  for  the  worst ! 
I  am  not  so  near  to  God  as  you,  Sulpice.  I  cannot  be 
resigned  like  you.  It  cannot  be.  It  is  a  trance,  but  not 
death,  no,  not  death.  The  doctors  are  mad,  they  do  not 
know  what  they  are  saying.  Oh,  think  what  mistakes 
they  make  every  day;  they  say  a  man  is"  dead,  and  he 
comes  to  life  in  a  few  hours.  Their  remedies  are  some- 
times powerless.  I  will  take  him  in  my  arms,  and  with 
my  tears  and  caresses  bring  him  back  to  life.  And  if  a 
miracle  be  necessary,  you  are  a  saint,  Sulpice,  my  brother; 
you  will  ask  God,  and  He  will  work  a  miracle." 

"  No,"  said  the  priest,  in  a  voice  which  betrayed  the 
terrible  anguish  of  his  soul.  "  We  cannot  ask  for  a 
miracle;  it  would  be  tempting  God.  No;  our  father 
will  never  wake  again,  except  with  our  Father  who  is  in 
Heaven.  When  I  have  given  up  hope,  Sabine,  be  assured 
there  is  none." 

"No  hope?"  cried  she;  "and  you  say  this?    But  of' 
what  did  he  die  ?    Was  he  stricken  by  a  thunderbolt  ?" 

"The  thunderbolt  which  often  falls  upon  unsuspecting 
victims;  a  crime — " 

"  My  father  murdered  !"  cried  Sabine— and  oh,  how 
terrible  was  the  horror  of  her  voice. 
♦*  Murdered,"  said  Sulpice,  in  a  low  voice. 


■^■■•^•»'''»«'Siimmmmmitifim>mt>ie:K.-,ys!e&Mstitf.s ,  nmmimmmmit^nf.- 


^ 


1     ! 


So 


IDOLS. 


"  But  why,  why  ?    He  was  so  good  !     He  had  no  ene 
mies.     Who  could  have  done  it  ?" 

"  That,  my  poor,  heart-broken  Sabine,  justice  is  seek- 
ing to  discover,"  said  Sulpice, "  and  you  will  presently  be 
called  upon  to  aid  it  in  its  work." 

"  To  aid  it !"  said  she,  bewildered.  "  But  what  do  I 
know  ?  I  was  asleep.  I  was  sleeping  while  my  father 
was  being  murdered.  I  was  sleeping,  and  perhaps  he 
was  calling  me !  Why  did  not  a  secret  presentiment 
warn  me?  I  was  sleeping — I  who  pretended  to  love 
him  !" 

"  Do  not  reproach  yourself,  Sabine.  Whilst  this  mon- 
strous deed  was  being  done  I  was  far  away,  and  Xavier 
did  not  hear." 

"  Does  Xavier  know  ?"  asked  Sabine. 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  Sulpice.  "  I  still  have  the  second 
part  of  my  task  to  accomplish.  Help  me,  Sabine.  My 
burden  is  heavy;  I  almost  sink  under  its  weight.  The 
daughter,  indeed,  is  on  the  verge  of  despair;  but  the 
Christian  should  arise.  Keep  Uie  dignity  of  your  sor- 
row. Suffer  and  pray,  but  no  fears  or  outburst  of  grief, 
if  you  can  help  it.  Promise  me  that,  for  the  present  at 
least,  you  will  not  ask  to  see  our  father's  body;  later, 
when  the  magistrates  have  left  the  house,  we  will  keep 
watch  beside  him — keep  our  vigil  together.  Will  you  give 
me  your  word  ?" 

"  I  give  it,  Sulpice,"  she  said.    "  Go  to  Xavier,  go !" 

Sabine  sank  down  upon  her  prie-dieu,  and  kissed  the 
feet  of  the  crucifix,  her  tears  streaming  upon  it. 

"  Lord,"  said  Sulpice,  "  comfort  her  soul  and  strength- 
en mine." 

When  the  priest  was  on  his  way  to  his  brother's  room, 
he  was  told  that  the  magistrates  desired  his  presence. 
The  priest  collected  all  his  strength:  the  strength  of  his 
heart  that  he  might  not  fail;  of  his  mind  that  he  might 


\V: 


■v^mmma^mmmj. 


)od  !     He  had  no  ene 

abine,  justice  is  seek- 
.  you  will  presently  be 

ed.  "  But  what  do  I 
ping  while  my  father 
ping,  and  perhaps  he 
a  secret  presentiment 
ho   pretended  to  love 

ne.     Whilst  this  mon- 
far  away,  and  Xavier 

bine. 

I  still  have  the  second 

lelp  me,  Sabine.     My 

ider  its  weight.     The 

e  of  despair;  but  the 

!  dignity  of  your  sor- 

5  or  outburst  of  grief, 

tat,  for  the  present  at 

father's  body;  later, 

house,  we  will  keep 

jether.  Will  you  give 

Go  to  Xavier,  go !" 
dieu,  and  kissed  the 
ning  upon  it 
ler  soul  and  strength- 

:o  his  brother's  room, 
lesired  his  presence. 
i:  the  strength  of  his 
I  mind  that  he  might 


y.^'tA^M.^U.^^ifr^ .: 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


81 


not  betray,  by  word  or  sign,  the  secret  which  was  the 
secret  of  God, 

Just  as  he  was  entering  his  father's  room,  where  the 
magistrates  were  in  waiting,  Xavier,  coming  suddenly 
to  his  door,  questioned  Baptiste  as  to  what  was  going 
on. 

"Sir,"  said  the  presiding  magistrate,  addressing  Sul- 
pice  in  a  tone  of  deep  respect,  "  will  you  take  a  seat  ?  I 
beg  your  pardon  for  having  to  discliarge  so  unpleasant  a 
duty  at  such  a  time;  but  justice  cannot  wait." 

"  I  am  ready  to  answer  your  questions,  sir,"  said  the 
priest. 

M.  Gaubert  made  a  sign  to  his  secretary,  who  pre- 
pared to  take  down  the  deposition. 

"  You  went  out  early  yesterday  evening  ?" 

"  About  eight  o'clock,  sir.  I  was  sent  for  on  a  sick 
call." 

"  You  came  in  after  that  ?" 

"  A  little  before  half  past  twelve.  As  I  went  up  stairs 
I  met  two  men  coming  down,  and  one  of  them  said  to 
me,  '  We  need  your  ministry;  the  salvation  of  a  soul  is 
at  stake.'  I  went  whither  I  was  summoned;  I  fulfilled 
my  task,  and  returning — " 

"  You  have  nothing  more  to  make  known  to  the  law  ?" 

"  Nothing  more." 

"  You  can  retire.  Mile.  Pomereul's  testimony  is  also 
necessary.     We  are  now  awaiting  her." 

"  I  will  go  for  her,"  said  Sulpice. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  Sabine,  supported  by  her 
brother,  entered  the  room.  The  expression  of  her  face 
was  pitiable.  It  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that,  trying  to 
follow  the  example  of  her  brother,  she  was  making  heroic 
efforts  to  control  her  grief. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  judge,  "  you  were  alone  last 
night  with  your  father  on  this  first  floor  of  the  house  ?" 


.  *.yM1KSS««aii4i!^l?^-lTi»,>>«E%«-^'*^'!Vr-»-.-v^VA.^ 


• 


$a 


IDOLS. 


"Alone?  I  an  not  sure,"  she  said.  "My  brother 
Xavier  may  have  been  in  the  house." 

"  I  thought  your  brother  spent  his  evenings,  and,  usu- 
ally, his  nights,  at  the  club  ?"  said  the  magistrate. 

"Usually,  yes,"  she  said;  "but  as  for  that,  he  will  tell 
you  himself." 

"  You  heard  no  unusual  noise  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  left  my  poor  father  at  half  past  nine.  I 
left  him  there  sitting  where  you  are.  I  went  to  my  room. 
For  about  an  hour  I  was  writing  in  my  journal  little 
incidents  of  our  domestic  life,  as  I  do  every  day.  I 
went  to  bed.  This  morning  Sulpice  came  and  told  me 
all." 

"  To  your  knowledge,  had  M.  Pomereul  any  ene- 
mies ?" 

"  Some  people  may  have  been  ungrateful  to  him,  but 
he  had  no  enemies,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  that  occurs  to  your  memory  ? 
'  No  light  flashes  upon  your  mind  ?  There  was  no  one 
about  him  who  entertained  any  ill  feeling  towards  him 
on  account  of  having  been  refused  a  favor,  or  the  like  ?" 

"My  father  never  recused  a  favor  which  it  was  in  his 
power  to  grant.  I  know  that  the  day  before  yesterday 
his  friend,  M.  Andr6  Ni.':ois,  asked  him  for  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  before  the  end  of  the  month.  My  father 
sent  for  that  amount.  People  always  found  him  ready 
to  oblige,  or  to  give  in  charity." 

"  You  can  retire.  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  magistrate. 
"  Should  it  be  necessary  to  question  you  further,  you  will 
hold  yourself  in  readiness." 

Sabine  slowly  left  the  room.  As  she  passed  through 
the  hall,  a  storm  of  passionate  grief  reached  her  ears. 
Xavier,  to  whom  Baptiste  had  told  the  whole  truth,  had., 
in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the  faithful  servant,  rushed 
into  the  chamber  of  death.    Throwing  himself  upon  his 


t 


said.     "My  brother 

is  evenings,  and,  usu- 

the  magistrate. 

s  for  that,  he  will  tell 


at  half  past  nine.     I 

.    I  went  to  my  room, 

in  my  journal  little 

I  do  every  day.    I 

ce  came  and  told  me 

Pomereul  any  ene- 

grateful  to  him,  but 

rs  to  your  memory  ? 
There  was  no  one 
feeling  towards  him 
;  favor,  or  the  like  ?" 

which  it  was  in  his 
lay  before  yesterday 

him  for  a  hundred 
e  month.  My  father 
rs  found  him  ready 

said  the  magistrate, 
you  further,  you  will 

she  passed  through 
if  reached  her  ears, 
he  whole  truth,  had, 
tiful  servant,  rushed 
ig  himself  upon  his 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


H 


father's  corpse,  he  strained  it  to  his  breast,  and  spoke  to 
it  with  the  eloquence  of  despair.  He  impiored  it  to 
answer  him,  he  addressed  vain  prayers  and  supplications 
to  it,  the  word  pardon  came  again  and  again  to  his  lips, 
and  the  excess  of  his  grief  bordered  on  frenzy.  Vainly 
did  Baptiste. repeat  that  the  magistrates  awaited  him.  He 
could  not  be  torn  from  the  place.  What  could  the  law 
do  ?  Could  it  with  all  its  idle  forms  restore  his  father? 
Justice  could  do  its  work  later,  but  only  a  few  hours  re- 
mained in  which  he  could  clasp  the  dear  dead  form  in 
his  arms,  that  form  which  another  and  more  inexorable 
law  must  soon  take  from  him. 

Baptiste  went  to  the  magistrates  and  told  them  how 
useless  were  all  his  efforts.     M.  Gaubert  rose. 

"  Let  us  go  there,"  he  said,  "  and  question  him  where 
he  is." 

They  went  thither  and  stopped  on  the  threshold. 
Terrible  was  the  spectacle  that  met  their  eyes:  The 
disfigured  corpse  and  the  young  man  half  mad  with 
grief;  it  was  a  sight  to  touch  the  hardest  heart. 

"  How  terrible  his  grief  is,"  said  M.  Obry. 

"Somewhat  too  demonstrative,"  said  M.  Gaubert. 

"Let  us  for  humanity's  sake  leave  him  time  to  recover 
himself,"  said  M.  Obry. 

Xavier  held  one  of  his  father's  stiffened  hands,  and 
thus  addressed  the  rigid  clay: 

"Father,"  said  he,  "is  all  over?  You  will  never  look 
at  me  again,  your  lips  will  never  more  call  your  son,  you 
are  lost  to  me,  lost  irrevocably  and  beyond  appeal,  lof.«, 
mute,  dead.  It  is  horrible,  horrible,  and  when  your  eyc» 
last  met  mine  it  was  in  anger,  and  your  lips,  J .«.( cad  of 
affectionate  words,  spoke  but  to  drive  nje  from  you,  a - 
most  cursed  me." 

M.  Obry  would  have  approached  Xavier,  but  his  com- 
panion stopped  him. 


* 


^ 


84 


IDOLS. 


■i  K; 

i 

; 


"  Listen,"  said  he,  authoritatively, "  listen." 

"Ah!  I  have  been  wicked  and  ungrateful;  I  repaid 
your  goodness  by  causing  you  grief.  I  responded  to  your 
tenderness  by  indifference.  My  faults  embittered  your 
life,  and  my  crime — " 

Xavier  stopped,  for  convulsive  sobs  choked  his  utter- 
ance. M.  Gaubert  waited  till  this  storm  of  grief  had 
passed,  pressing  his  companion's  hand  significantly. 
Xavier  continued: 

"  For  money,  that  cursed  money  which  I  spent  in 
folly  or  debauch  I  embittered  your  life.  I  needed  money 
for  my  suppers  and  my  horses.  I  needed  it  for  gam- 
bling, gambling.  Pardon,  pardon,  father,  I  implore 
you,  pardon,  pardon.  C^.n  you  never  let  me  knov/  from 
that  other  world  that  you  have  forgotten  everything, 
even — ?    I  am  indeed  lost,  forever  accursed — " 

M.  Gaubert  whispered  to  his  frien.', 

"  Let  us  retire  quietly." 

When  they  had  returned  to  the  study,  M.  Gaubert 
rang  the  bell.     Baptiste  appeared. 

"  I  wish  to  put  some  further  questions  to  Mile.  Pome- 
reul.    Ask  her  to  come  here." 

When  Baptiste  had  gone  M.  Gaubert  said: 

"  You  see,  M.  Obry,  our  task  is  being  simplified.  It 
seems  to  me — " 

"  You  suspect — " 

"  What  do  you  think  yourself  ?" 

"  I  ?    Nothing,  nothing,  I  swear  to  you." 

"  You  deceive  yourself.  The  same  thought  which  oc- 
curred to  me  a  moment  ago  also  flashed  upon  your 
mind." 

"It  is  impossible,"  cried  Obry, 

"  Everything  is  possible,"  said  the  other;  "you  are  still 
young,  but  you  will  become  in  time  as  skeptical  as  I  am." 

Sabine  came  in,  and  the  conversation  ceased. 


„ 


-listen." 

ngrateful;  I  repaid 
I  responded  to  your 
Its  embittered  your 

1  choked  his  utter- 
storm  of  grief  had 
iiand    significantly. 

which  I  spent  in 
c.  I  needed  money 
needed  it  for  gam- 
father,  I  implore 
•  let  me  know  from 
gotten  everything, 
:ursed — " 


study,  M.  Gaubert 

ons  to  Mile.  Pome- 

rt  said: 

ing  simplified.    It 


ou." 

thought  which  oc- 
ashed  upon  your 


her;  "  you  are  still 
skeptical  as  I  am." 
n  ceased. 


r-i>rV.,ti-.^'^Va' 


W 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


9$ 


"  Mademoiselle,"  said  M.  Gaubert, "  in  such  a  matter 
as  this  everything  tends  to  enlighten  a  court  of  'ustice. 
We  must  have  a  perfect  knowledge  of  this  household 
and  its  habits  to  guide  us  in  our  researches.  Do  not 
have  any  fear,  conceal  nothing  from  us.  Your  duty  is 
to  tell  the  whole  truth,  you  should  be  the  first  to  desire 
the  punishment  of  the  guilty." 

"  My  sorrow  is  too  great  to  think  of  vengeance,"  she 
said. 

"  In  what  frame  of  mind  was  your  father  when  you 
last  saw  him?    Had  he  not  been  annoyed  in  some  way?" 

"Yes, he  had  some  slight  annryances,  but  it  did  not 
amount  to  much.     My  father  was  so  jood." 

"Was  it  not  on  account  of  some  money  which  your 
brother  h?d  asked  from  him?" 

"  It  was, ' 

"  M.  Pom  Teul  refused  to  furnish  him  with  means 
for  his  superfluous  expenses  ?" 

"Yes,  but  he  would  have  yielded.  I  offered  Xavier 
my  jewels  and  my  savings,  but  he  refused,  such  confi- 
dence had  he  in  my  father's  generosity  and  affection." 

"  Perhaps,  too,  the  amount  he  required  exceeded  the 
resources  at  your  disposal?" 

"  That  might  be,  sir." 

"Did  you  witness  any  scene  of  violence  between  M. 
Pomereul  and  your  brother?" 

Sabine  hesitated. 

"  Your  duty  is  to  speak,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  mag- 
istrate almost  sternly. 

The  young  girl  raised  her  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  M. 
Gaubert's  face-  he  did  not  heed  1  ■  distre"55.  M.  Obry 
on  the  contrg.     cast  a  look  of  compassion  upon  her. 

"  The  night  before  last,"  said  Sabine,  with  an  effort, 
"  my  father  had  a  long  conversation  with  Xavier.  I  do 
not  know  what  they  said,  only  the  sound  of  their  voices 


^ 


i 


■  .!' 


'  4:; 


86 


IDOLS. 


reached  me.  I  was  alarmed.  Anxious  to  reconcile  them 
I  came  here.  My  father  seemed  angry,  Xavier  had  lost 
all  control  of  himself.  Ah!  only  for  that  he  would  never 
have  said  it.  Xavier  was  wild,  extravagant,  but  never 
wicked." 

"  What  did  he  say,  mademoiselle  ?" 

"He  said:  'You  refuse  me;  then  something  terrible 
will  happen  in  this  house.' " 

Sabine  could  scarce  pronounce  these  last  words.  The 
effort  overcame  her,  and  she  fainted. 

M.  Obry  sprang  to  her  assistance. 

"  It  is  like  putting  her  to  the  torture,"  cried  he. 

"  Yes,  but  the  torture  has  brought  out  the  truth,"  said 
M.  Gaubert.     He  summoned  Sabine's  maid. 

"  Take  your  mistress  to  her  room,"  said  he,  "  Dr. 
Arnal  is  still  in  the  house.     He  will  take  care  of  her." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  associate. 

"  We  must  proceed  with  this  affair,"  said  he. 

The  secretary  was  sent  to  bring  Xavier  from  the  cham- 
ber of  death  to  the  presencii  of  the  magistrates,  despite 
his  resistance.  At  first  Xavier  paid  no  attention  to  the 
magistrate's  polite  request;  a  more  imperativ*  summons 
was  necessary. 

When  he  came  into  the  room  his  face  was  livid,  his 
clothing  disordered,  his  limbs  trembling,  his  manner  full 
of  fierce  excitement;  he  refused  to  sit  down:  advancing 
to  the  desk  he  placed  his  two  hands  upon  it,  and  leaning 
forward,  said  in  a  strange  unnatural  voice,  addressing  M. 
Gaubert, 

"Could  you  not  leave  me  to  weep  for  my  father? 
Cannot  justice  come  after  the  first  outburst  of  filial 
grief?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  magistrate  in  a  cold,  impassive  voice, 
"  the  Abb^  Pomereul  and  your  sister  <3omplied  with  our 


US  to  reconcile  them 

gry,  Xavier  had  lost 

that  he  would  never 

travagant,  but  never 


I  something  terrible 
ese  last  words.    The 


ire,"  cried  he. 
t  out  the  truth,"  said 
;'s  maid. 

Dom,"  said   he,  "  Dr. 
take  care  of  her." 

r,"  said  he. 
avier  from  the  cham- 
;  magistrates,  despite 
I  no  attention  to  the 
imperativ«>  summons 

face  was  livid,  his 

ing,  his  manner  full 

lit  down:  advancing 

upon  it,  and  leaning 

voice,  addressing  M. 

eep  for  my  father? 
St  outburst  of  filial 

)ld,  impassive  voice, 
r  domplied  with  our 


it'.  ^kfAlsrl^ki'^jetr  li£rll!.ii.[l._'  ;>Ili^>.' 


'V*!i»^*-..-v:'.'vir-  ■ 


THE  ACCUSATION. 


87 


demands  as  representatives  of  justice;  have  the  goodness 
to  imitate  them." 

"  What  can  I  tell  you  of  this  crime  ?"  said  he.  "  I  knew 
nothing,  I  suspected  nothing.  This  cowardly  murder 
must  be  avenged,  and  I  will  help  you  with  all  my  heart. 
But  not  now,  not  now!  Oh,  leave  me  in  peace  to  weep 
beside  the  corpse  of  him  who  was  my  father !" 

"  You  loved  him  very  much  ?"  said  M.  Gaubert 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  loved  him  very  much." 

"  And  yet  you  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble  ?" 

"  I  committed  faults,  serious  faults  it  is  true,  but  their 
memory  weighs  heavy  enough  on  me  now;  you  need  not 
reproach  me  with  them." 

"  You  have  debts  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Arising  from  your  extravagant  habits,  or  from  i'^-^fies 
at  the  gaming  table  ?" 

"  From  both  sources." 

"  You  have  lately,  in  particular,  lost  a  large  sum  ?" 

"  A  day  or  two  ago  I  lost  forty  thousand  francs." 

"  Lost  upon  your  promise  ?" 

"On  my  promise." 

"  And  your  father  refused  to  pay  this  debt  ?" 

"  He  refused." 

"  Did  not  his  refusal  occasion  a  violent  scene  between 
you  ?" 

"  With  which  I  bitterly  reproach  myself." 

"  You  went  so  far  as  to  threaten  him  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  my  grief  led  me  only  as  far  as  despair.  I 
saw  myself  dishonored,  and  I  thought — " 

"  Of  commiting  a  crime  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Xavier  in  a  husky  voice. 

M.  Obry  looked  at  Xavier  in  amazement. 

M.  Gaubert  proceeded  with  the  examination. 

"Your  father  was  a  man  of  regular  habits.    You  knew 


m^i 


^ 


88 


IDOLS. 


I 


I- 


he  retired  early,  and  you  waited  till  he  was  asleep  to 
enter  iiis  apartments.     Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  It  is  so,"  cried  Xavier,  overcome  by  the  recollection. 

"  Talcing  off  your  shoes,  you  stole  into  the  room  where 
he  was  asleep;  you  took  his  keys  and  approached  the 
safe  to  take  the  sum  you  required." 

The  young  man  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"It  was  not  surprising  that  a  son  should  know  the 
secret  of  his  father's  safe,"  continued  M.  Gaubert,  laying 
an  emphasis  on  each  word,  and  giving  them  further 
significance  by  impressive  pauses;  "you  opened  the 
safe.  It  was  full  of  valuables,  and  contained  amongst 
other  things  the  hundred  thousand  francs  intended  for 
M.  Andr6  Nicois.  The  sight  of  the  gold,  the  bank- 
notes, agitated,  fascinated,  bewildered  you  ?" 

"  It  is  true,  O  my  God  ;  true,"  cried  Xavier,  overcome. 

"  You  bent  down  you  filled  your  hands  with  the  gold 
and  bank-notes,  and  laden  with  your  spoils — " 

Xavier  brought  Iiir  clenched  fist  down  upon  the  table. 

"That  is  not  trpe,"  he  cried,  exultantly;  "I  was 
tempted,  I  took  the  keys,  I  opened  the  safe,  but  I  did 
not  steal;  on  my  soul,  I  did  not  steal !" 

He  pronounced  these  words  with  such  sincerity  that 
M.  Obry  was  deeply  moved. 
.  M.  Gaubert  continued  in  an  unmoved  tone: 

"  You  came  for  that  purpose,  however  ?" 

"  It  is  true,  I  freely  confess  it.  I  said  to  myself  sub- 
stantially, My  father's  fortune,  or  at  least  a  portion  of 
it,  will  revert  to  me  some  day.  I  am  only  taking  what 
will  be  my  own.  The  thought  of  his  anger  was  less 
terrible  to  me  than  the  thought  of  being  disgraced  at  the 
club.  All  that  evening  I  encouraged  myself  with  danger- 
ous sophistry.  I  silenced  my  conscience  and  listened  to 
my  passions.  Even  the  sight  of  my  father  sleeping  did 
not  touch  me.    But  as  I  was  about  to  take  the  money 


i 


THE  ACClJi,ATION. 


89 


11  he  was  asleep  to 

by  the  recollection, 
into  the  room  where 
ind  approached  the 

hands. 

»  should  know  the 
M.  Gaubert,  laying 
iving  them  further 
"you  opened  the 
cc.itained  amongst 
francs  intended  for 
le  gold,  the  bank- 
I  you  ?" 

I  Xavier,  overcome, 
ands  with  the  gold 
spoils — " 

wn  upon  the  table, 
cultantly;  "I  was 
:he  safe,  but  I  did 

such  sincerity  that 

:d  tone: 
er?" 

id  to  myself  sub- 
least  a  portion  of 
only  taking  what 
is  anger  was  less 
g  disgraced  at  the 
lyself  with  danger- 
ce.and  listened  to 
ather  sleeping  did 
o  take  the  money 


/ 


which  I  so  much  needed,  when  I  was  about  to  discharge 
my  debt  by  committing  a  crime,  my  terrified  eyes  fell 
upon  the  portrait  of  my  good  mother,  and  my  courage, 
if  it  could  be  called  courage,  left  me  abruptly.  I  saw 
the  act  which  I  was  about  to  commit  in  its  true  colors, 
and  I  fled.  I  fled  from  myself." 
*^  And  yet  the  money  is  gone  and  your  father  is  dead  ?" 
"  Then,  sir,"  cried  Xavier,  fixing  horror-stricken  eyes 
upon  the  magistrate,  "  if  you  accuse  me  of  having  stolen 
the  money,  you  also  accuse  me  of  having  murdered  rav 
father !"  ^ 

"An  hour  ago  I  came  to  that  conclusion,  answered 
M.  Gaubert. 

''  I,  the  murderer  of  the  best  of  fathers  ?"  cried  Xavier. 

"  The  best  of  fathers  to  an  unnatural  son,"  replied  the 
magistrate.  And  rising  with  more  than  his  usual  sever- 
ity,  he  said  with  all  the  authority  of  his  office, 

"  You  will  answer  at  the  bar  of  justice  for  the  crime  of 
parricide." 

"  Parricide !"  cried  Xavier. 

"  Henceforth  you  are  in  the  hands  of  the  law." 

Xavier's  eyes  dilated  with  horror,  wild  thoi.j;hts  passed 
through  bis  mind,  and  he  fell  unconscious  into  a  chair. 


i 


y" 


9? 


IDOLS. 


•ifV.M 


t 


I 


CHAPTER   Vli. 

Heart  Trials. 

Whilst  the  doctor  was  in  attendance  upon  Xavier, 
wlio  was  slowly  recovering  from  the  terrible  paroxysm 
which  had  ensued,  M,  Gaubert  and  M.  Obry  were  left 
alone  in  the  study. 

The  former  seem-d  calm,  like  a  man  who  had  come  to 
a  foregone  conclusion.  He  sorted  his  papers,  numbered 
and  labelled  them.  M.  Obry,  on  the  contrary,  seemed 
anxious  and  ner\'ous.  His  face  changed  from  white  to 
red.  At  last  he  got  up  abruptly  and  began  to  pace  the 
room.  M.  Gaubert,  raising  his  eyes,  and  observing  the 
alteration  in  his  companion's  face,  asked  him  kindly, 

"Are  you  unwell,  M.  Obry '" 

"  Yes,"  cried  M.  Obry,  in  a  voice  which  plainly  showed 
his  inward  emotion.  "I  am  sufifering  from  a  malady, 
which  I  see  has  passed  you  cy  while  it  tortures  me;  this 
malady  is  called  doubt.'' 

"Then  you  doubt  this  young  man's  guilt?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  But  can  you  deny  the  evidence  ?" 

"  I  feel  a  certain  conviction  to  the  contrary,  an  impres- 
sion; I  yield  to  the  imperious  dictates  of  my  conscience, 
and  I  have  a  presentiment,  which  I  am  sure  does  not 
deceive  me.  This  young  man's  sorrow  is  sincere.  His 
horror  and  repugnance  when  he  heard  himself  accused 
of  so  terrible  a  crime  were  not  feigned." 

"  It  was  a  well-acted  farce,  I  admit,"  said  the  other; 
"  but  it  should  not  mislead  a  man  of  your  experience." 

"That  may  be,  sir,"  said  M.  Obry;  "hut  there  is  some- 
thing else." 


i 


.y.;!), 


HEART  TRIALS. 


9» 


ndance  upon  Xavier, 
he  terrible  paroxysm 
id  M.  Obry  were  left 

nan  who  had  come  to 
his  papers,  numbered 
the  contrary,  seemed 
anged  from  white  to 
Jd  began  to  pace  the 
:s,  and  observing  the 
isked  him  kindly, 

vhich  plainly  showed 
"ing  from  a  malady, 
e  it  tortures  me;  this 

I's  guilt?" 


contrary,  an  impres- 
:es  of  my  conscience, 

I  am  sure  does  not 
•row  is  sincere.  His 
:ard  himself  accused 
ed." 

nit,"  said  the  other; 
:  your  experience." 
;  "  but  there  is  some- 


,. 


i 


"What?" 

"  This,"  said  the  other,  holding  up  a  tuft  of  red  hair 
covered  with  Lipp-Lapp's  blood. 

"You  understand,  however,  that  very  little  importance 
can  be  attached  to  such  a  circumstance.  •  Lipp-Lapp 
comes  and  goes  about  the  house;  he  even  goes  out  some- 
times; who  can  explain  the  whim  of  this  singular  animal  ? 
Of  course  we  cannot  account  for  the  presence  of  a  tuft 
of  hair  in  the  hands  of  a  chimpanzee,  but  it  does  not  in 
the  least  influence  my  conviction.  Let  us  look  at  the 
matter,  M.  Obry;  let  us  discuss  it,  or  rather  '  lay  the 
facts  before  ourselves.  I  would  not  wish  the  .  'ow  of 
a  doubt  to  be  left  upon  your  mind,  because  I  k  ou, 

and  know  that  it  would  be  torture  to  you.  1.  .axuri- 
ous  habits,  the  extravagance,  the  folly,  the  dissipation  of 
Xavier  Pomereul  are  well  known.  He  admits  that  he  is 
heavily  in  debt,  and  owes  a  gambling  debt,  or  debt  of 
honor  as  it  is  called,  of  which  the  amount  is  forty  thousand 
francs,  an  enormous  sum,  so  .enormous  that,  wealthy  as 
the  father  was,  he  refused  to  pay  it." 

"  I  know  all  that,"  said  M.  Obry. 

"Xavier  is  bent  upon  having  the  money;  he  begs,  im- 
plores, threatens.  He  threatens,  do  you  understand? 
His  sister  heard  him;  he  himself  confesses  it." 

"True." 

"  His  father  having  refused,  the  young  man  shuts  him- 
self up  in  his  room,  not  daring  to  go  to  the  club  till  he 
could  pay  his  debt.  He  seeks  some  means  by  which  to 
obtain  the  money,  and  loses  sight  of  all  honor  and 
honesty.  In  the  examination  made  by  us  a  moment 
ago  we  found  upon  this  young  man's  table  a  penal  code, 
marked  at  the  page  containing  Article  380.  That  proves 
a  premeditated  robbery.  Then,  a  letter  addressed  to  M. 
de  Monjoux,  informing  him  that  the  money  owed  him 
will  be  at  his  disposal  the  following  day.    That  note  was 


p 


i  1^ 


93 


IDOLS. 


I 


I 


i,'- 


5. 


written  during  the  evening.  In  tiie  son's  mind  the  hour 
of  his  crime  was  fixed;  he  could  commit  it  fearlessly,  in 
the  certainty  of  impunity,  the  code  having  taught  him 
that  in  such  a  case  the  law  is  powerless,  the  authority 
of  the  head 'of  the  family  being  supreme." 

"The  unfortunate  boy  has  admitted  all  this  himself," 
said  M.  Obry. 

"  He  waited,"  continued  the  other,  "  till  his  father  was 
asleep,  took  the  keys  from  under  his  pillow,  opened  the 
safe,  was  in  the  act  of  taking  the  money,  when  his  father 
stood  before  him,  calling  him  thief.  He  grew  frenzied; 
he  was  afraid  of  his  father;  he  did  not  want  to  give  up 
the  money;  a  terrible  struggle  ensued;  the  son  was  the 
stronger;  the  parricide  fled.  All  prudence  deserted  him. 
He  forgot  to  close  the  srfe,  left  the  piece  of  his  shirt 
upon  the  ground,  and  throwing  himself  upon  his  bed 
without  undressing — horrible  to  relate  !  goes  to  sleep." 

"  You  may  be  reasoning  logically  from  the  premises," 
said  M.  Obry.  ''  You  have  drawn  these  conclusions 
from  proved  and  admitted  facts.  Most  men  would  think 
as  you  do,  and  yet  is  it  not  possible  that,  as  he  himself 
says,  seized  wi  h  terror  and  remorse  he  fled?  His  in- 
tention 9 'no  .  here  established  from  the  fact.  He 
stole  tuc  >  78  &  ^  opened  the  safe,  then,  horrified  at  the 
thought  cl  the  crime,  fled." 

"  r  ';e  Hed,  who  took  the  hundred  thousand  francs,  and 
who  killed  M.  Pomereul  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  do  not  know,  what  I  cannot  guess, 
and  that  is  what  remains  for  us  to  discover." 

"  The  most  we  can  admit  is  the  presence  of  an  accom- 
plice," said  M.  Gaubert,  "  and  that  may  require  another 
trial.  I  believe,  sir,  that  I  am  as  deeply  impressed  as  you 
with  the  sacredness  of  my  office;  my  whole  life  is  a  proof 
of  this;  my  conviction  is  unalterable,  yet  I  will  use  every 
means  to  throw  further  light  on  this  terrible  a£Eair,  which 


^ 


'immsmm^^^fm^'^^'^'^^'^rT^' 


pj' '  wu^j4JaffBJtf-i; 


■^ 


son's  mind  the  hour 
mmit  it  fearlessly,  in 
:  having  taught  him 
rrless,  the  authority 
•erne." 
ted  all  this  himself,'" 

,  "  till  his  father  was 
is  pillow,  opened  the 
)ney,  when  his  father 
He  grew  frenzied; 
not  want  to  give  up 
ed;  the  son  was  the 
idence  deserted  him. 
e  piece  of  his  shirt 
mself  upon  his  bed 
te  !  goes  to  sleep." 
from  the  premises," 
I  these  conclusions 
3st  men  would  think 
:  that,  as  he  himself 
Je  he  fled  ?  His  in- 
from  the  fact.  He 
hen,  horrified  at  the 

housand  francs,  and 

hat  I  cannot  guess, 
scover." 

ssence  of  an  accom* 
>ay  require  another 
ly  impressed  as  you 
ivhole  life  is  a  proof 
yet  I  will  use  every 
errible  affair,  which 


I 


19 


r 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


LiVA    12.5 

m  m  12.2 
•!'  120    12.0 


I.I 

=       M 

1.25  |U   1 1.6 


^'  ^^ 


^>..>  -'^'" 


^^-'l.  '^. 


^tfm 


Jfliik^ll 


ScMioes 
Carparation 


BJi(L;wiMumiiMi 


23  W0T  MAM  STMIT 

>I«IMIP«.N.V.  14SM 

(7U)t79-4S0S 


MTta 


:^ 


«v 


o^ 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
mi 


HEART  TRIALS. 


93 


will  stir  public  opinion  to  its  depths.  And  if,  by  your 
efforts,  you  should  discover  some  proofs  in  support  of 
your  presentiment,  I  shall  be  deeply  indebted  if  you  will 
communicate  them  to  me." 

"  You  authorize  me  then  to  pursue  my  inquiries  ?" 

"It  is  your  duty  so  to  do,  and  mine  to  urge  you  there- 
unto."    Just  then  the  doctor  appeared  with  Xavier. 

The  latter  fell  into  an  arm-chair,  weak,  exhausted,  ut- 
terly overcome. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  addressing  M.  Gaubert,  "  I  swear  to 
you  that  I  am  innocent.  I  perfectly  understand,  with 
natural  fear  and  horror,  that  circumstances  are  against 
me.  And  yet,  however  foolish  and  dissipated  I  may  have 
been — sufficiently  so  to  give  ground  for  such  an  accusa- 
tion— I  loved  my  father;  ah  !  indeed  I  loved  him." 

"  Had  you  any  accomplices }"  asked  M.  Gaubert,  coldly. 

"  Accomplices  !"  cried  Xavier.  "  Do  you  not  hear  me 
say  that  I  am  innocent  ?" 

"  You  must  prove  your  innocence,  sir,  before  the  law," 
said  M.  Gaubert.  "  And  now  would  you  like  to  say  good- 
by  to  your  brother  and  sister  ?" 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  take  me — " 

"  To  prison,"  said  the  other,  briefly. 

"  Oh,  I  am  lost,  lost !"  cried  Xavier. 

In  this  cry  of  despair,  M.  Gaubert  saw  only  an  evi-  ^ 
dence  of  a  criminal's  hardened  conscience  overcome  at 
last  by  the  evidence  against  him.  It  certainly  seemed 
that  a  young  man  of  irreproachable  conduct  and  regular 
habits,  accused  of  a  parricide  committed  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, would  have  protested  against  so  horrible  an 
accusation  with  more  vigor  and  eloquence.  But  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  intended  theft  weighed  upop  Xavier. 
His  own  admission,  Sabine's  testimony,  in  which  that  of 
Sulpice  seemed  to  concur,  all  were  against  him.  Yes,  he 
felt  that  he  was  lost;  his  punishment  was  indeed  heavy. 


i:;n 


94 


IDOLS. 


His  nature  was  weakened  morally  and  physically  by 
his  nightly  vigils;  his  mind,  too,  prematurely  enfeebled, 
lacked  the  energy  which  it  would  have  required  to  sus- 
tain him  in  so  terrible  an  ordeal.  Xavier  had  no  strong, 
living,  overmastering  plea  to  offer;  he  felt  weak  as  a 
woman,  helpless  as  a  child. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  would  prefer  to  spare  Sulpice  and 
Sabine  the  pain  of  such  a  parting.  They  will  be  allowed 
to  come  and  see  me  ?" 
"  Yes,  when  the  affair  is  made  known  to  the  public." 
"  Let  us  go,  then— quick  !  For  humanity's  sake,  send 
for  a  carriage,  and,  if  possible,  disperse  the  crowd  out- 
side; I  can  hear  the  murmur  of  it  even  here." 

M.  Gaubert  gave  an  order  to  his  secretary,  who  went 
out.  Xavier  wrote  a  few  lines  to  his  brother,  and  left  the 
letter  open  on  the  table. 

While  the  doctor  and  Sulpice  were  still  busied  with  Sa- 
bine, Baptiste,  weeping,  kissed  his  young  master's  hand, 
and  the  latter,  accompanied  by  the  two  magistrates,  went 
down  stairs. 
M.  Obry  whispered  hastily  to  Xavier, 
"  Keep  up  your  courage.     I  will  not  desert  you." 
The  unfortunate  boy  gave  him  a  grateful  look. 
The  two  carriages  had  arrived.     In  one  went  M.  Gau- 
bert and  his  secretary;  in  the  other,  M.  Obry  and  the 
policemen  who  had  charge  of  Xavier.     During  the  drive 
M.  Obry  was  obliged  to  keep  silence,  owing  to  the  pres- 
ence of  the  policemen;  but  Xavier  knew  that  he  could 
regard  him  as  a  friend. 

Whilst  Xavier  was  passing  through  the  first  stages  of 
the  long  and  sorrowful  way  which  lay  before  him,  Sabine 
was  slowly  recovering  consciousness.  The  first  word 
she  uttered  was  Xavier's  name.  Sulpice  promised  that 
she  would  see  him  soon,  and  went  out  to  ask  the  magis- 
trates if  the  three  sorrowful  orphans  could  be  left  tc 


ly  and  physically  by 
>rematurely  enfeebled, 
have  required  to  sus- 
Xavier  had  no  strong, 
;r;    he  felt  weak  as  a 

to  spare  Sulpice  and 
They  will  be  allowed 

nown  to  the  public." 
humanity's  sake,  send 
iperse  the  crowd  out- 
even  here." 
s  secretary,  who  went 
is  brother,  and  left  the 

re  still  busied  with  Sa- 
young  master's  hand, 
two  magistrates,  went 

ivier, 

not  desert  you." 
I  grateful  look. 
In  one  went  M.  Gau- 
ler,  M.  Obry  and  the 
er.  During  the  drive 
ce,  owing  to  the  pres- 
r  knew  that  he  could 

gh  the  first  stages  of 
ay  before  him,  Sabine 
ess.  The  first  word 
ulpice  promised  that 
out  to  ask  the  magis- 
ans  could  be  left  tO' 


HEART  TRIALS. 


95 


gether  beside  their  father's  corpse.  It  was  then  the 
priest  first  learned  that  Xavier  had  been  arrested  by  or- 
der of  the  examining  magistrate.  At  first  he  could  not, 
would  not  understand.  The  note  left  by  Xavier  told  him 
of  the  horrible  accusation  which  had  been  made  against 
his  brother. 

"But  he  is  innocent!"  cried  he;  "he  is  innocenil  I 
will  speak  to  the  magistrates,  and  beg  them  to  give  me 
back  my  brother,  my  poor  brother." 

Returning  to  Sabine,  he  threw  his  arms  round  her  with 
mournful  tenderness,  saying, 

"  Pray,  oh,  pray,  Sabine;  our  trial  is  harder  than  I 
thought." 

Sulpice  went  to  the  jail.  He  spoke  with  convincing 
eloquence;  he  pleaded  for  Xavier,  answering  for  him — 
soul  for  soul,  honor  for  honor.  Every  one  showed  the 
greatest  respect  and  sympathy  for  the  young  priest;  but, 
as  regarded  Xavier,  could  only  give  him  an  evasive  answer. 

"  Alas !  sir,"  said  the  magistrate  to  whom  the  priest 
addressed  himself;  "  to  save  your  brother,  we  must  find 
another  criminal." 

"  But  then — "  cried  Sulpice. 

He  did  not  finish;  he  knew  the  real  criminal;  he  had 
seen  his  face — knew  his  name.  With  one  word  he  could 
orove  Xavier's  innocence  and  bring  the  murderer  to  jus- 
tice. If  his  magnanimity  had  been  so  great  as  to  pardon 
his  father's  murderer,  must  he  then  leave  his  brother 
under  so  monstrous  an  accusation  ?  Did  his  duty  oblige 
him  to  sacrifice  Xavier  and  leave  unpunished  the  escaped 
felon,  Jean  Machii  ?  Was  the  secret  of  the  confessional 
then  so  absolute  that,  placed  between  the  honor  and  the 
life  of  his  own  brother,  he,  the  priest,  was  obliged  to  see 
the  family  dishonored  and  his  brother  d  ing  upon  the 
scaffold,  rather  than  betray  a  wretch's  secret  ?  Would 
it  not  be  different  if  the  thief  the  man  of  blood,  when  he 


"Tj 

1  I 

II' 


i   ) 


J^ 


96 


IDOLS. 


knelt  before  the  priest,  had  really  repented,  and  been 
swallowed  up,  as  it  were,  in  the  abyss  of.  divine  mercy? 
But  Jean  Machii  had  played  a  sacrilegious  farce.  Sulpice's 
power  had  been  used  to  ensnare  hiin.  Was  he  really 
bound  to  a  man  who  had  made  a  mockery  of  the  sacra- 
ment, who  had  used  the  secrecy  imposed  upon  the  priest 
as  a  weapon  to  save  himself,  as  he  would  have  been  to 
an  ordinary  and  sincerely  repentant  sinner  ? 

In  one  rapid  moment  Sulpice  thus  questioned  himself. 
His  heart  beat  high,  his  head  seemed  burning.  A  terrible 
struggle  was  going  on  in  his  breast.  By  one  word  he 
could  save  his  brother;  but  by  one  word  he  would  be- 
come unfaithful  to  his  oath,  perjured  alike  before  God 
and  men.  He  wiped  the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow,  and 
muttered  in  a  feeble  voice, 

"  I  am  sure  of  Xavier's  innocence,  but  I  cannot  furnish 
any  proof  of  it.     Let  me  at  least  go  and  console  him." 

"In  a  day  or  two  the  secret  will  be  made  known,  and 
the  doors  of  the  prison  thrown  open  to  you,"  they  replied. 

Sulpice  getting  into  a  carriage  drove  back  to  his  home. 
He  found  Sabine  in  the  chamber  of  death.  The  room 
had  been  arranged  by  her  direction;  tapers  were  burning 
at  the  four  corners  of  the  bed;  a  silver  vase  of  holy 
water  stood  at  the  foot;  a  crucifix  was  laid  upon  the  dead 
man's  breast,  and  the  curtains  were  drawn  to  conceal  the 
face,  changed,  alas!  beyond  recognition.  The  perfume 
of  flowers  standing  in  vases  about  the  room  mingled 
with  the  air  which  had  already  become  close  and  almost 
stifling. 

Sabine  burst  out  crying  when  she  saw  Sulpice,  and 
said  but  o.ne  word: 

"Xavier?" 

"  I  told  you,  my  poor  child,"  said  Sulpice,  "  to  pray, 
and  to  be  courageous.  Let  the  sister  rely  upon  her 
brother's  words;  let  the  Christian  be  resigned.    .There 


repented,  and  been 
fTSS  of.  divine  mercy? 
;ious  farce.  Sulpice's 
lini.  Was  he  really 
lockery  of  the  sacra- 
osed  upon  the  priest 
would  have  been  to 
sinner? 

>  questioned  himself, 
burning.  A  terrible 
it.     By  one  word  he 

word  he  would  be- 
ed  alike  before  God 
:  from  his  brow,  and 

but  I  cannot  furnish 
and  console  him." 
je  made  known,  and 
to  you,"  they  replied, 
•ve  back  to  his  home, 
f  death.  The  room 
tapers  were  burning 
silver  vase  of  holy 
is  laid  upon  the  dead 
drawn  to  conceal  the 
tion.  The  perfume 
t  the  room  mingled 
me  close  and  almost 

tie  saw  Sulpice,  and 


1  Sulpice,  "to  pray, 
lister  rely  upon  her 
be  resigned.    .  There 


' 


HEART  TRIALS. 


97 


are  afflictions  which  surpass  human  strength,  and  to  sus- 
tain such  we  must  ask  our  Lord  to  let  us  carry  the  Cross 
with  Him.  Do  not  question  me,  for  I  cannot  answer. 
Do  not  tell  me  to  act;  I  am  powerless;  but  God  is  above 
us,  and  God  knows  all !" 

Sabine  sobbed  aloud.  An  hour  passed  thus.  The 
young  girl  was  still  weeping,  and  Sulpice  begging  mercy 
of  Heaven,  when  the  door  of  the  room  opened  noiselessly, 
and  Benedict  Fougerais,  pale  and  trembling,  came  m  and 
knelt  beside  the  orphans.  Adopted  on  the  very  evening 
before  the  murder  by  M.  Pomereul,  he  came  to  share  in 
the  grief  of  the  family.  Sabine  raised  her  heavy  eyes  to 
his  for  an  instant;  Sulpice  made  place  for  him,  but  not 
a  word  was  spoken. 

All  three  remained  absorbed  in  a  grief  which  was  deep 
and  beyond  expression.  Ever  and  anon  Sulpice  recited 
some  psalm,  thus  pouring  the  words  of  faith  and  trust 
in  God  into  their  desolate  hearts.  A  strong  cry  went  up 
from  his  soul  to  God  with  the  lamentations  of  the  royal 
Prophet.  Once  a  sob  which  burst  from  his  overcharged 
heart  broke  upon  the  stillness  of  the  room. 

Meanwhile,  a  scene  scarcely  less  painful  was  being 
enacted  in  the  drawing-room,  in  the  dining-room,  and, 
in  fact,  in  all  the  apartments  of  the  house,  each  one  in 
turn  being  examined  by  the  officers  of  justice. 

Somewhere  about  eleven  o'clock,  a  short  time  after  the 
inquest,  Marc  Mauduit  appeared  upon  the  scene  to  fulfil 
as  usual  his  daily  duties. 

These  were  the  correspondences,  the  management  of 
money,  and  the  keeping  of  private  accounts.  M.  Pome- 
reul had  thought  very  highly  of  Marc  Mauduit,  and  was 
wont  to  praise  his  discretion,  promptitude  and  good 
habits.  In  fact  this  well-dressed  young  man  with  the 
soft  voice  and  intelligent  face  always  inspired  sympathy. 
Yet  certain  signs,  by  which  physiognomists  are  rarely 


98 


IDOLS. 


deceived,  might  have  led  one  to  believe  that  his  employer 
rated  him  rather  too  highly.  The  lips  were  thin,  and 
the  expression  of  the  face  not  wholly  devoid  of  cunning. 
But,  as  we  have  said,  these  details  were  lost  in  the 
pleasing  whole. 

Marc  Mauduit,  lithe  and  graceful  of  figure,  was  always 
well  and  carefully  dressed,  but  without  affectation  or 
display.  He  was  fi  nd  of  fine  linen  and  the  choicest 
perfumes.  People  often  jested  about  the  great  care 
which  he  bestowed  upon  his  hair,  but  he  always  answered 
in  the  same  strain,  that  such  care  was  more  necessary 
for  him  than  any  one  else,  because  he  had  to  make  up 
for  its  color  by  great  attention  to  its  arrangement.  The 
servants,  ihough  not  over-fond  of  him,  always  showed 
him  the  greatest  deference.  Xavier  alone  regarded  him 
with  positive  hatred,  which  was  easily  accounted  for  by 
the  fact,  that  the  elder  Pomereul  so  often  drew  a  com- 
parison between  his  son's  extravagant  and  irregular 
habits,  and  the  irreproachable  conduct  of  his  secretary. 

When  Marc  Mauduit  appeared  at  the  door,  the  con- 
cierge said  to  him  in  an  agitated  voice, 

"  So  you  have  not  heard,  M.  Mauduit  ?" 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  what  is  going  on  ?"  cried  he. 

"M.  Pomereul  was  murdered  last  night." 

"  Murdered  ?    By  whom  ?" 

"  By  whom  no  one  knows.  But  you  know  how  it  is 
with  the  law;  it  must  always  have  a  victim  and  make 
some  arrest,  and  so  M.  Xavier  has  been  arrested." 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Marc  Mauduit. 

He  said  no  more;  he  seemed  overcome  by  emotion. 

"  You  are  amazed,  and  no  wonder,"  continued  the  con- 
cierge ;  "a  boy  can  be  fond  of  gaming  and  of  horses, 
without  being  capable  of  such  a  crime.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"  I  ?    Why  I  can  answer  for  M.  Xavier's  innocence." 


re  that  his  employer 
ps  were  thin,  and 
devoid  of  cunning, 
were  lost  in  the 

f  figure,  was  always 
hout  affectation  or 
n  and  the  choicest 
out  the  great  care 
he  always  answered 
ras  more  necessary 
ie  had  to  make  up 
arrangement.  The 
lim,  always  showed 
alone  regarded  him 
y  accounted  for  by 
often  drew  a  com- 
Sfant  and  irregular 
ict  of  his  secretary. 
:  the  door,  the  con- 
:e, 

uit?" 

ig  on  ?"  cried  he. 
night" 

rou  know  how  it  is 
a  victim  and  make 
5en  arrested." 

;ome  by  emotion. 
"  continued  the  cw- 
ling  and  of  horses, 
ime.    What  do  you 

vier's  innocence." 


•-fr 


HEART  TRIALS. 


99 


"  Right  you  are,  M.  Marc,"  said  the  other,  "  and  it  does 
you  honor." 

"  But,"  said  the  secretary,  "  when  such  a  dreadful 
affliction  comes  upon  a  family,  notwithstanding  their 
grief,  many  things  have  to  be  attended  to.  Have  the 
funeral  arrangements  been  thought  of  ?" 

"  Nothing  has  been  thought  of,  sir;  every  one  is  over- 
come with  grief  and  horror." 

"  Their  grief  must  not  be  disturbed,"  said  Marc  Mau- 
duit.  "  I  will  consult  with  Baptiste,  and  see  how  I  can 
be  useful." 

Marc  Mauduit  went  up  stairs  and  found  Baptiste  in  the 
dining-room. 

"  My  poor  Baptiste,"  said  he,  "  all  I  can  do  is  to  try 
and  spare  M.  Sulpice  the  mournful  duty  of  attending  to 
the  funeral.  A  certificate  of  burial  is  required,  a  coffin, 
a  hearse,  and  printed  announcements.  I  will  attend  to 
the  legal  formalities  at  the  Mayor's  office,  and  bring  the 
news  to  the  workmen  in  the  factory  at  Charenton.  I 
have  lost  a  protector,  a  second  father,  in  the  person  of 
M.  Pomereul;  looking  down  on  us  from  above,  he  will 
see  that  I  deem  it  my  sacred  duty  to  honor  his  memory." 

Baptiste  highly  approved  of  the  young  secretary's 
devotion,  and  the  latter  proceeded  to  the  Mayor's  office, 
to  the  undertaker's,  and  lastly  to  Charenton.  The  news 
of  M,  Pomereul's  terrible  death  spread  general  conster- 
nation among  the  workmen  at  the  factory.  They  asked 
themselves  what  would  become  of  them,  now  that  they 
had  lost  the  master  who  had  swee<^ 'iied  their  laborious 
existence,  and  made  their  domestl;  ; 'e  so  honorable  and 
so  happy.  The  old  men  who  had  k  ;own  him  when  he 
and  they  were  still  young,  and  who  had  seen  his  hair 
grrow  grey  with  their  own,  wiped  away  bitter  tears. 
Each  one  recalled  some  act  of  benevolence  or  of  gener- 
osity on  the  part  of  that  excellent  man. 


100 


IDOLS. 


Moreover  if  he  had  only  died  a  natural  death,  if*they 
had  been  prepared  for  it  by  a  long  illness — but  murdered! 
That  good  man!  A  cry  of  detestation  against  the  mur- 
derer followed  the  first  natural  outburst  of  astonishment 
and  sorrow,  and  when  Xavier's  name  was  mentioned  the 
excitement  was  intense. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  cried  a  young  workman,  whose 
dress  was  somewhat  above  his  station;  "he  may  have 
kept  late  hours,  and  been  fond  of  good  dinners  and  the 
theatre,  but  that  does  not  lead  to  such  a  thing  as  this." 

"It  does  lead  to  such  things,"  replied  an  old  work- 
man, slowly, "  and  before  one  thinks,  too,  laziness  leads 
to  drunkenness.  First  is  spent  the  money  earned,  next 
the  money  borrowed,  and  lastly  the  money  stolen.  I  do 
not  mean  this  for  M.  Xavier,  for  I  saw  him  first  when  he 
was  a  little  fair-haired  boy,  and  the  sight  of  his  rosy  face 
did  my  heart  good,  but  I  say  it  for  you  and  such  as  you, 
who  want  fashionable  coats  and  despise  the  blouse,  who 
read  papers  which  are  much  more  Rouge  than  Blue  in 
their  principles,  and  who  play  billiards  in  low  coffee- 
houses;  you  make  light  of  all  this,  my  lad,  but  if  any- 
thing bad  happens  in  your  neighborhood  you're  like  to 
get  the  credit  of  it.  M.  Xavier,  I  can  answer  for  it,  never 
murdered  his  poor  father,  but  his  conduct  was  bad. 
Circumstances  which  are  almost  proofs  rise  up  against 
him,  and  God  knows  where  it  will  all  end." 

"Yes,"  echoed  Marc  Mauduit, "God  knows  where  it 
will  all  end." 

"Meanwhile,"  said  Blanc-Cadet,  the  old  workman, 
"  we  have  a  double  duty  to  do,  to  pay  the  last  tribute  of 
respect  to  our  good  master,  and  if  we  can  to  help  his  son. 
We  are  only  laborers,  but  the  Son  of  God  vouchsafed  to 
be  a  carpenter,  to  sltow  us  the  value  of  work.  We  have 
hearts,  souls,  arms,  and  intelligence,  let  us  place  all  these 
at  the,  service  of  the  orphans.    What  say  you,  comrades  ?" 


HEART  TRIALS. 


idt 


tural  death,  irthey 
!ss — but  murdered! 
1  against  the  mur- 
rst  of  astonishment 
was  mentioned  the 

I  workman,  whose 
on;  "he  may  have 
)d  dinners  and  the 
1  a  thing  as  this." 
slied  an  old  work- 
too,  laziness  leads 
money  earned,  next 
noney  stolen.  I  do 
r  him  first  when  he 
ght  of  his  rosy  face 
u  and  such  as  you, 
se  the  blouse,  who 
ouge  than  Blue  in 
irds  in  low  coffee- 
my  lad,  but  if  any- 
lood  you're  like  to 
answer  for  it,  never 
conduct  was  bad. 
ofs  rise  up  against 
end." 
3d  knows  where  it 

the  old  workman, 
'  the  last  tribute  of 
can  to  help  his  son. 
God  vouchsafed  to 
of  work.  We  have 
et  us  place  all  these 
>ay  you,  comrades  ?" 


I 


"We  say  yes, a  thousand  times,  Father  Blanc-Cadet," 
they  answered,  vociferously. 

The  old  man  now  approached  Marc. 

"We  thank  you,  M.  Mauduit,"  said  he,  "for  having 
come  to  tell  us  the  sorrowful  news;  this  afternoon  a  dep- 
utation of  us  will  go  to  pay  our  tribute  to  the  remains 
of  our  poor  master,  and  to-morrow  all  the  workmen  will 
attend  the  funeral."  The  secretary  then  got  into  the 
carriage  and  drove  rapidly  homeward.  The  workmen 
were  full  of  honest  grief,  never  had  they  so  fully  under- 
stood M.  Pomereul's  constant  kindness  as  now.  When 
they  thought  of  the  infant-school,  the  work-room,  and 
the  hospital,  all  founded  by  this  noble-hearted  man,  this 
model  master,  this  generous  capitalist,  so  delicate  in  his 
generosity,  they  could  only  repeat  that  no  one  could  take 
his  place  towards  them,  and  that  they,  too,  like  the  Pome- 
reul  family,  were  orphans. 

Each  among  them  wanted  .to  go  to  the  Chauss^e 
d'Antin  to  pray  beside  the  mortal  remains  of  the  victim; 
it  was  at  last  decided  that  only  the  heads  of  each  depart- 
ment should  go  in  the  name  of  their  comrades.  In 
about  two  hours  afterwards  they  reached  the  Pomereul 
homestead.  Sulpice,  informed  of  their  arrival,  himself 
threw  open  the  doors  of  the  room,  transformed  into  a 
chapelle  ardente,  and  when  he  saw  them  kneeling,  pray- 
ing, stifling  back  their  tears,  the  refreshing  dew  of  heav- 
enly consolation  fell  upon  his  heart. 

"O  God  most  good!"  he  said  aloud,  "God  of  mercy 
and  of  clemency,  receive  into  thy  eternal  peace  him 
whom  thou  hast  so  suddenly  withdrawn  from  life.  Shall 
not  the  memory  of  his  many  virtues,  of  his  benevolence 
suffice  for  Thy  justice?  We  venture  to  hope  so,  Lord! 
but  if  aught  remains  against  this  man  who  lived  to  do 
good,  if  the  alms  so  lavishly  given  were  not  offered  fully 
and  entirely  to  Thee,  if  he  forgot  to  send  upwards  to 


102 


IDOLS. 


Thy  throne  the  feeling  which  prompted  him  to  relieve 
the  poor  and  to  assist  his  brethren,  then,  O  my  God! 
hear  the  voice  of  those  who  weep,  accept  our  prayers  and 
tears  in  suffrage  for  the  imperfections  of  his  life,  and  let 
the  pain  and  horror  of  his  last  hour  obtain  for  him 
mercy  in  Thy  sight." 

All  hearts  were  wrung,  all  eyes  were  streaming  with 
tears,  and  all  hands  were  outstretched  towards  tlie 
corpse  as  if  for  a  parting  benediction.  Sulpice  vainly 
tried  to  persuade  these  worthy  men  to  retire;  they  in- 
sisted upon  remaining  to  watch  beside  their  master  and 
benefactor,  to  share  the  vigils  of  the  family.  Both  Sul- 
pice and  his  sister  consented,  too  much  touched  by  this 
mark  of  grief  and  respect  to  insist  further. 

The  night  passed  solemnly  in  the  chamber  of  death. 
Sulpice  prayed  aloud  by  turns,  and  the  others  answered. 
Notwithstanding  her  weakness,  Sabine  had  insisted  on 
remaining  beside  her  father.  Kneeling  by  the  bed,  her 
hands  resting  upon  the  coverlet,  she  seemed  utterly 
unconscious.  Orders  had  been  given  that  the  funeral 
should  take  place  very  early  in  the  morning.  But,  de- 
spite the  unusual  hour,  a  dense  crowd  had  assembled  in 
the  Place  de  la  Trinit6.  According  to  promise,  the 
workmen  of  the  factory  at  Charenton  had  come  thither 
with  their  wives  and  children.  An  effort  was  made  to 
spare  Sulpice  the  pain  of  saying  the  Mass  and  giving 
the  final  absolution.  But,  heroic  to  the  last,  the  young 
priest  would  not  permit  any  one  else  to  pronounce,  in  the 
name  of  the  Church,  the  last  farewell  to  the  beloved 
dead.  As  soon  as  the  coffin  had  been  placed  in  the 
hearse,  the  children  of  the  employees  advanced,  each  one 
laying  a  wreath  upon  it.  The  procession  passed  on  to 
P^re-la-Chaise,  where  the  Pomereuls  had  a  vault.  No 
panegyric  was  pronounced  over  the  remains:  not  be- 
cause the    merchants,  and  th£   Municipal  Council,  of 


HEART  TRIALS. 


103 


>ted  him  to  relieve 
,  then,  O  my  God! 
ipt  our  prayers  and 
s  of  his  life,  and  let 
Lir  obtain   for  him 

;re  streaming  with 
tched  towards  tlie 
an.  Sulpice  vainly 
I  to  retire;  they  in- 
,e  their  master  and 

family.  Both  SuU 
ch  touched  by  this 
rther. 

chamber  of  death. 
:ie  others  answered, 
ne  had  insisted  on 
ng  by  the  bed,  her 
le  seemed  utterly 
in  that  the  funeral 

morning.  But,  de- 
d  had  assembled  in 
ig  to  promise,  the 
n  had  come  thither 
effort  was  made  to 
e  Mass  and  giving 
the  last,  the  young 
to  pronounce,  in  the 
irell  to  the  beloved 
been  placed  in  the 

advanced,  each  one 
:ssion  passed  on  to 
s  hdd  a  vault.  No 
e  remains:  not  be- 
nicipal  Council,  of 


which  M.  Pomcreul  had  been  a  member  had  excused 
themselves  from  accompanying  the  funeral,  but  because 
of  the  charge  against  Xavier.  To  speak  of  the  death 
would  have  been  the  same  as  mentioning  the  name  of 
him  whcjm  some  already  called  the  murderer,  and  would 
thus  have  inflicted  another  pang  upon  Sulpice.  Every 
one  present  came  forward  to  shake  hands  with  him;  he 
kissed  the  younger  of  the  children,  and  took  his  place 
with  Benedict  in  M.  Nicois'  carriage.  The  banker  was 
in  despair. 

"  Ah!"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  deep  grief,  "  it  seems  as  if  I 
were,  indeed,  the  cause  of  my  poor  friend's  death.  For 
had  I  not  asked  for  the  hundred  thousand  francs,  no  one 
would  have  thought  of  robbing  him." 

"  You  had  every  right  to  apply  to  a  friend  for  the  loan 
you  required,  M.  Nicois,"  said  Sulpice,  "and  I  shall  con- 
sider it  my  duty  to  render  you  the  service  my  father  had 
promised.  The  sum  which  you  require  shall  be  placed 
to  your  credit  at  the  bank,  and  you  can  use  it  at  your 
discretion;  accept  it  from  me,  as  you  would  have  done 
from  Antoine  Pomereul." 

"  But  under  such  circumstances — " 

"Our  affliction  will  not  lessen  your  anxiety, sir;  my 
father's  friendship  for  you  must  survive  him,  for  we  are 
heirs  to  it.  If  ever  you  find  yourself  in  trouble,  believe 
me  always  ready  to  sympathize  with  you." 

M.  Nicois  did  not  ask  to  see  Sabine,  but  Benedict  re- 
turned home  with  Sulpice. 

"  Do  you  think  your  unfortunate  brother  has  chosen 
a  lawyer?"  asked  he. 

"  He  will  not  hear  of  it,  my  dear  Benedict,"  said  Sul- 
pice, "  he  disdains  it." 

"Let  me  go  and  see  M.  Renaut  for  you;"  said  Bene- 
dict; "  he  is  a  young  man  of  great  talent  in  whom  I  have 
every  confidence."  j, 


I04 


IDOLS. 


"  Do  as  you  like,  my  brother,"  said  Sulpice,  extend- 
i  ig  his  hand,  which  the  other  warmly  pressed. 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  yours  also  ?"  asked  he,  address- 
ing Sabine. 

The  young  girl  hesitated  ;  but  seeing  the  look  of 
pain  and  reproach^upon  the  artist's  face,  she  could  not 
refuse. 

"A  brother  may  indeed  take  his  sister's  hand,"  sh  , 
said,  gravely. 

Benedict  started,  and  looked  at  her  with  sad  surprise; 
but  Sulpice  whispered, 

"  She  has  suffered  so  much  that  you  must  pardon  her 
dejection." 

Benedict  soon  went  away,  and  Sabine  threw  herself 
into  her  brother's  arms,  with  an  outburst  of  grief. 

"  I  can  bear  no  more  !"  she  cried.  "  My  God  !  it  is 
too  much  for  a  feeble  creature.  You  are  a  saint,  Sul- 
pice, but  I  am  but  a  woman,  and  my  strength  has  given 
way." 


TIIK   INVIOLABLE  SECRET. 


105 


d  Sulpice,  extend- 
pressed. 
asked  he,  address- 

:eing    the   look  of 
:ace,  she  could  not 

sister's  hand,"  sh  , 

with  sad  surprise; 

u  must  pardon  her 

)ine  threw  herself 
irst  of  grief. 

"  My  God  !  it  is 
I  are  a  saint,  Sul- 
strength  has  given 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Inviolable  Secret. 

However  exhausted  in  mind  and  body,  the  Abb6 
Pomereul  was  none  the  less  resolved  to  settle  everything 
which  his  father's  sudden  death  had  left  unsettled.  His 
first  important  step  was  to  proceed  to  Charenton,  to  se- 
cure the  interests  of  the  laboring  population  there,  and 
also  those  of  Xavier  and  Sabine.  He  sent  for  the  fore- 
man of  the  foundry,  the  heads  of  each  department  of 
carvers,  mounters,  or  other  workmen,  and  said  to  them 
frankly  and  kindly: 

"  My  friends,  your  prosperity  as  well  as  ours  rests  with 
yourselves.  I  can  guide  you  in  the  right  way,  teach 
your  children  the  lessons  of  the  gospel,  and  to  love  the 
things  of  God;  but  I  am  powerless  to  direct  you  in  the 
affairs  of  the  foundry,  or  bear  so  heavy  a  burden.  If 
we  give  up— do  not  look  well  to  the  control  of  affairs 
at  present— it  is  more  than  probable  that  more  disastrous 
times  will  follow.  There  are  rumors  of  war  on  all  sides; 
hostilities  with  Prussia  may  begin  any  day;  trade  will 
Inevitably  suffer.  The  wisest  course  is,  therefore,  to 
continue  what  my  good  father  so  well  commenced,  thanks 
to  your  honesty  and  devotion.  Henceforth  you  will  no 
longer  be  the  workjnen  or  employees  of  the  house  of 
Pomereul,  but  its  proprietors.  Our  commercial  pros- 
perity will  be  yours.  You  will  have  full  charge  of  the 
laborers  under  your  orders.  If  their  conduct  has  been 
hitherto  good,  help  me  to  make  it  still  better.  I  will 
now  have  many  cares;  therefore  I  beg  of  you  to  supply 
what  I  cannot  do;  give  me  this  consolation  in  my  heavy 
sorrow:  say  to  me, '  The  men,  their  wives  and  children, 


I 
I 
* 

I 


.1 


io6 


IDOLS. 


Still  continue  in  the  way  of  virtue,  from  which  nothing 
will  turn  them  aside.'  " 

*'  So  it  shall  be,  I  swear  to  you,  in  the  name  of  my 
companions,"  answered  Blanc-Cadet.  "  As  for  our  in- 
terest in  the  profits,  we  will  accept  it  willingly,  as  upon 
it  depends  the  future  of  our  families.  God  grant  that  the 
loss  of  your  poor  father  may  be  the  last  of  your  troubles." 

"  But  will  you  not  come  any  more  to  officiate  in  our 
chapel,  sir  ?"  asked  one  of  the  men. 

"  I  will  devote  Sunday  to  you,  as  usual,  my  friends," 
said  Sulpice.  "  My  greatest  consolation  hereafter  will 
be  to  live  among  you.  Farewell,  or  rather .««  revoir.  My 
mind  is  now  at  peace." 

Touching  was  this  scene  between  the  Abb6  Pomereul 
and  the  workmen  of  the  factory.  All  of  them  had  tears 
in  their  eyes,  and  Sulpice  could  scarce  restrain  his  own 
emotion. 

However,  he  felt  better  after  leaving  Charenton.  The 
interests  of  his  brother  and  sister  would  be  protected, 
and  these  good  people,  whom  he  considered  as  a  part 
of  the  family,  would  not  suffer.  When  he  got  home,  he 
went  to  Xavier's  rooms.  He  found  them  in  the  greatest 
disorder.  The  servants,  with  a  sort  of  superstitious 
feeling,  had  not  ventured  to  go  in  since  the  legal  formali- 
ties had  been  gone  through  with  there.  Sulpice  opened 
the  secretary.  He  examined  all  the  papers.  They  were 
principally  bills.  He  classified  them  by  dates,  catalo.srued 
them,  and  added  the  total.  It  was,.indeed,  a  large  sum, 
«but  Sulpice  sent  word  to  the  creditors  that  he  would 
meet  their  demands  on  Monday.  He  sent  to  the  Count 
de  Monjoux  the  forty  thousand  francs  which  his  brother 
had  lost,  praying  him  to  excuse  the  slight  delay  in  the 
payment  of  the  debt.  That  done,  Sulpice  breathed  more 
freely.  At  first  he  thought  of  selling  Xavier's  horses  and 
carriages. 


•om  which  nothing 

n  the  name  of  my 

"As  for  our  in- 

willingly,  as  upon 

God  grant  that  the 

t  of  your  troubles." 
to  officiate  in  our 

usual,  my  friends," 
tion  hereafter  will 
ather  a»  revoir.    My 

the  Abb6  Pomereul 
1  of  them  had  tears 
ce  restrain  his  own 

ig  Charenton.  The 
ould  be  protected, 
)nsidered  as  a  part 
len  he  got  home,  he 
hem  in  the  greatest 
rt  of  superstitious 
:e  the  legal  formali- 
-e.  Sulpice  opened 
papers.  They  were 
by  dates,  catalo.^ued 
ndeed,  a  large  sum, 
ors  that  he  would 
e  sent  to  the  Count 
:s  which  his  brother 
slight  delay  in  the 
Ipice  breathed  more 
Xavier's  horses  and 


THE  INVIOLABLE  ShXRET. 


107 


' 


■ 


I 


"But,  no,"  he  said;  "that  would  seem  like  casting  a 
reflection  upon  him,  and  might  add  to  the  gravity  of  his 
situation." 

He  had  just  finished  making  up  the  accounts,  and  con- 
cluded his  arrangements,  when,  coming  out  of  Xavier's 
apartments,  h'^  met  the  doctor. 

"  You  have  come  to  ask  for  Sabine,  M.  Morvan  ?"  said 
he.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  The  poor  thing  is 
very  weak  and  broken  down." 

"  She  is  in  no  danger,  however,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  She  is  a  heroic  child,  and,  being  a  true  Christian,  seeks 
strength  from  on  high.  I  am  less  uneasy  about  her 
than  about  her  unfortunate  brother.  M.  Xavier  has  lost 
that  wonderful  vitality,  which  is  one  of  the  privileges  of 
youth.  He  is  in  such  a  state  of  despair  that  I  fear  for 
his  mind." 

"  Doctor  !  what  are  you  saying  ?"  cried  Sulpice. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  truth,  sir,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Late 
hours  and  dissipation  have  told  upon  his  constitution. 
Another  shock  would  finish  him.  Happily,  however, 
there  is  only  an  accusation  as  yet.  He  may  be  speedily 
released.  Of  course,  I  am  perfectly  convinced  of  his 
innocence;  but  will  he  be  able  to  prove  it  ?" 

"Ah!  you  believe  in  him;  you — think  him  innocent." 

"  Why,  I  am  certain  of  it,"  said  the  doctor;  "  and  M. 
Obry  is  of  the  same  opinion.  Unfortunately,  M.  Gau- 
bert  has  accumulated  evidence,  and  the  sole  witness  of 
the  murder  is  a  creature  who,  though  gifted  with  the 
greatest  sagacity  or  intelligence,  is  unfortunately  de- 
prived of  speech." 

"  Lipp-Lapp  ?"  asked  the  priest. 

"Yes;  the  poor  creature  seems  to  know  that  he  is 
needed.  Sometimes  his  eyes  question  us,  and  his  lips, 
too,  tremble.  He  gives  a  cry,  and  great  tears  roll  down 
his  cheeka     Have  no  fear;  I  will  cure  Lipp-Lapp,  and 


1  , 


,1    I 


io8 


IDOLS. 


set  him  on  the  trail  of  the  murderc'-s,  and  I  warrant  you  he 
will  find  them  out  quicker  than  a  whole  squad  of  police." 
"  You  are  right,"  said  Sulpice*,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"  That  poor  creature  may  be  the  means  which  God  will 
employ  to  make  known  the  truth— the  truth  which  has 
escaped  the  magistrates,  and  which  it  is  not  in  my  power 
to  make  known." 

Just  then  a  mournful  sound  was  heard  in  the  adjoining 
room,  and  the  doctor  said: 

"  He  has  recognized  your  voice,  and  is  calling  you." 
They  went  in.     As  soon  as  he  saw  his  young  master, 
the  chimpanzee  rose  and  held  out  one  arm  towards  him. 
His  eyes,  dimmed  by  suffering,  sparkled  with  joy,  but, 
overcome  by  weakness,  he  sank  back  exhausted. 

"You  see,"  said  the  doctor,  "your  young  master 
loves  you;  he  has  not  fcygotten  you." 

Lipp-Lapp  moved  upon  the  pillow,  and  with  an  effort 
put  his  hand  to  his  head,  making  a  movement  as  if  pull- 
ing out  hair,  and  then  to  his  breast. 

"  See,"  said  the  doctor,  "  Lipp-Lapp  is  telling  you  how 
it  was  he  plucked  the  hair  from  the  murderer's  head. 
The  murderer  wounded  the  poor  chimpanzee,  and  it  is 
for  us  to  find  the  wretch." 

"  Yes,"  thought  Sulpice;  "  for  that  is  not  Jean  Machd, 
but  the  accomplice,  to  whom  I  have  promised  nothing, 
nothing !" 

When  Lipp-Lapp  saw  that  his  master  was  going  away, 
he  held  out  his  long  hairy  hand,  which  Sulpice  pressed, 
remembering  that  it  had  defended  his  father. 

Sulpice  had  not  seen  his  sister  since  the  evening  before; 
he  found  her  in  her  little  room,  gazing,  through  her  tears, 
at  a  photograph  which  Benedict  Fougerais  took  care  to 
have  taken  some  hours  after  M.  Pomereul's  death.  This 
representation  of  violent  death  was  frightful,  and  yet  the 
young  girl  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  it 


THE  INVIOLABLE  SECRET. 


109 


'S,  and  I  warrant  you  he 
whole  squad  of  police." 
^ter  a  momenl's  silence, 
means  which  God  will 
— the  truth  which  has 
h  it  is  not  in  my  power 

heard  in  the  adjoining 

,  and  is  calling  you." 
aw  his  young  master, 
one  arm  towards  him, 
parkled  with  joy,  but, 
ick  exhausted, 
"your  young  master 
ou." 

low,  and  with  an  effort 
a  movement  as  if  puU- 
t. 

app  is  telling  you  how 
the  murderer's  head, 
chimpanzee,  and  it  is 

lat  is  not  Jean  Mach{l, 
ive  promised  nothing, 

aster  was  going  away, 
rhich  Sulpice  pressed, 
his  father. 

ice  the  evening  before; 
ng,  through  her  tears, 
^ougerais  took  care  to 
mereul's  death.  This 
frightful,  and  yet  the 
s  from  it 


"  Sabine,  I  implore  you,"  cried  Sulpice,  "  give  me  that 
horrible  picture.  Forget  that  you  saw  your  father  after 
his  terrible  death  agony.  Remember  him  only  as  he  was 
when  last  we  embraced  him." 

"  I  remember  him  so,  Sulpice,"  she  answered,  "  and  yet 
my  eyes  seem  to  fix  themselves  upon  this  photograph,  as 
if  it  would  reveal  the  secret  of  our  father's  death,  and 
tell  us  the  murderer's  name." 

"  God  will  make  it  known,  if  He  so  wills,  Sabine,"  said 
her  brother;  "  but,  meanwhile,  for  us  courage,  for  Xavier, 
resignation." 

"  And  can  he  be  resigned  ?"  said  Sabine;  "  must  he  not 
hate  both  the  law  and  society  at  large  ?  Who  knows  but 
ihat  he  curses  me,  for  did  not  my  replies  to  the  magis- 
trate help  to  draw  on  him  their  odious  suspicions  ?" 

"  We  must  submit  to  whatever  the  will  of  God  per- 
mits," said  Sulpice;  ''  Sabine,  my  sister,  do  not  reproach 
yourself;  you  have  done  your  duty." 

"  When  can  you  see  Xavier  ?"  asked  she. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  I  hope,"  replied  Sulpice. 

"  May  I  go  with  you,  Sulpice  ?"  / 

"  I  do  not  feel  strong  enough  to  have  you  with  me  during 
that  first  interview,  Sabine,"  said  he;  "  let  me  go  alone  and 
receive  the  first  outburst  of  his  grief  and  despair.  You 
will  come  afterwards  like  a  consoling  angel,  to  soften  the 
bitterness  of  that  poor  heart.  Alas  !  If  your  sorrow  for 
Xavier's  situation  be  not  greater  than  mine,  at  least  you 
have  a  better  right  to  console  him." 

"  But  promise  me  that  you  will  let  me  go  every  other 
time,"  said  she. 

"  I  promise,"  answered  the  priest 

"Then,"  said  she,  "I  must  dry  my  tears;  if  Xavier 
were  to  see  us  so  overcome,  he  would  believe  his  case 
hopeless.  I  will  take  your  advice  and  put  away  this  pic- 
ture which  renews  my  gneL" 


no 


IDOLS. 


Sulpice  left  his  sister  to  go  to  M.  Renaut's;  the  law- 
yer, engaged  by  Benedict,  to  place  his  talents  and  elo- 
quence at  Xavier's  service.  He  had  not  been  able  to 
see  him  until  the  matter  was  made  public.  When  they 
reached  the  prison,  Xavier,  as  was  usual  in  exceptional 
cases,  was  received  by  the  director  of  the  jail.  He 
was  ushered  into  a  room,  of  v/hich  the  architecture  re- 
sembled a  chapel;  and  the  first  legal  formalities  were 
attended  with  so  much  courtesy  and  kindness,  that 
Xavier  warmly  thanked  the  director.  The  latter,  upon  a 
word  from  M.  Obry,  had  promised  to  pay  every  attention 
to  Xavier,  and  to  spare  him  as  much  as  possible  the  hor- 
rors of  prison  life.  A  well-lighted  cell,  with  newly  white- 
washed walls,  was  given  him;  a  narrow  bed,  a  table,  and 
a  chair  constituted  its  furniture.  At  his  request  they 
brought  him  writing  materials.  As  soon  as  he  was  left 
alone  he  began  a  long  letter  to  Sulpice.  When  it  was 
finished  he  re-read  it,  and  remained  absorbed  in  thought, 
his  elbows  resting  on  the  table,  and  his  head  buried  in 
his  hands.  A  jailer  coming  into  the  cell  aroused  him 
from  his  meditations. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  asked  Xavier.     "  I  did  not  call." 

"  People  never  call  here,"  replied  the  jailer;  "  I  brought 
your  supper." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  said  Xavier. 

"  As  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  jailer;  "  but  M.  Gaubert 
has  ordered  a  new  examination,  and  it  is  better  in  such 
cases  to  keep  up  one's  strengfth." 

"  What !  is  he  going  to  question  me  again  ?"  said  Xavier. 

"  Most  likely,"  answered  the  jailer. 

"  Jiow  many  times  does  he  mean  to  put  me  to  the  tor- 
ture .'"  said  Xavier. 

"  Until  his  opinion  changes,  or  his  conscience  is  satis- 
fied." 

The  keeper  went  out.     Xavier  did  not  touch  the  coarse 


.^«V,'^'*^'Wi^J^f^v .' 


M.  Renaut's;  the  law- 
e  his  talents  and  elu- 
had  not  been  able  to 
e  public.  When  they 
s  usual  in  exceptional 
tor  of  the  jail.  He 
:h  the  architecture  re- 
legal  formalities  were 
f  and  kindness,  that 
)r.  The  latter,  upon  a 
to  pay  every  attention 
ch  as  possible  the  hor- 
cell,  with  newly  white- 
irrow  bed,  a  table,  and 

At  his  request  they 
As  soon  as  he  was  left 
julpicc.  When  it  was 
d  absorbed  in  thought, 
nd  his  head  buried  in 

the  cell  aroused  him 

vier.     "I  did  not  call." 
I  the  jailer;  "  I  brought 


liler;  "but  M.  Gaubert 
ind  it  is  better  in  such 

ne  again  ?"  said  Xavier. 

ler. 

a  to  put  me  to  the  tor- 

his  conscience  is  satis- 

id  not  touch  the  coarse 


1 


THE  INVIOLABLE  SECRET. 


Ill 


food  set  before  him;  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  though 
he  could  not  sleep,  his  wearied  brain  seeking  for  some 
infallible  means,  some  indisputable  proof  by  which  to 
convince  the  judge  of  his  innocence.  But  he  could  not 
find  any.  His  past  career  condemned  him  in  anticipa- 
tion. He  could  find  no  means  by  which  to  escape  from 
the  burden  of  this  fearful  accusation.  Not  one  act  of 
virtue  or  of  self-sacrifice  arose  to  plead  for  him  from  out 
the  long  years  of  his  unprofitable  youth.  His  time  had 
been  always  spent  in  pursuits  which  were  useless  if  not 
dangerous.  He  could  number  many  companions  of  the 
gaming-table,  of  his  suppers  and  his  revelry,  but  he 
could  not  count  upon  one  friend.  Benedict  Fougerais 
alone  had  stood  by  him,  and  that  not  so  much  through 
liking  or  esteem  for  Xavier,  as  for  Sabine's  sake. 

Sabine  !  What  did  she  think  of  him  ?  And  Sulpice ! 
With  what  anguish,  he  asked  himself,  would  they  too 
consider  his  past  offences  as  sufficient  reason  to  accuse 
him  of  such  a  crime  !  What  mattered  the  opinion  of  the 
multitude  if  Sabine  and  Sulpice  believed  him  innocent  ? 
The  director  of  the  prison  came  to  see  him.  Xavier 
begged  him  to  forward  the  letter  which  he  had  just  writ- 
ten to  his  brother. 

"You  are  still  under  secrecy,"  said  the  director,  "but 
I  shall  send  it  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  doctor  also  came  to  see  him.  He  advised  him  to 
eat  and  keep  up  his  strength;  the  director  sent  him  in 
some  lighter  food,  and  Xavier  managed  to  eat  a  little. 
During  the  evening  he  was  summoned  into  the  presence 
of  M.  Gaubert  to  undergo  a  second  examination.  When 
the  summons  came  the  prisoner  trembled  in  every  limb; 
since  the  evening  previous  he  had  been  frequently  seized 
with  such  nervous  attacks,  and  they  left  him  too  weak 
and  helpless  to  pass  through  this  terrible  ordeal.  The 
jailer  was  oblig^  to  repeat  the  magistrate's  orders; 


112 


IDOLS. 


then  Xavier  rose  with  some  difficulty,  and  followed  him 
in  silence.  When  he  found  himself  in  presence  of  the 
magistrate  Xavier  did  not  even  hear  the  words  addressed 
to  him,  but  said  in  a  broken  voice: 

"Sir,  I  am  innocent;  of  course  you  do  not  believe  it; 
you  accumulate,  to  my  ruin,  a  monstrous  collection  of 
faces  and  suppositions,  in  which  you  place  the  proof  of 
my  guilt.  I  repeat  to  you,  as  I  shall  repeat  at  the  bar  of 
justice,  and  as  I  shall  proclaim  to  the  world,  that  I  did 
not  murder  my  father.  Your  questions  are  horrible 
tortures  to  me;  I-am  free  to  remain  silent,  and  I  de- 
clare that  whatsoever  you  may  ask  me,  I  shall  refuse  to 
answer." 

"Take  care,"  said  the  magistrate,  severely. 

"What  more  have  I  to  fear?"  said  Xavier.  "I  spoke 
to  you  at  first  with  perfect  frankness.  I  confessed  my 
folly  and  my  debts;  my  criminal  attempt  to  rob  my  father 
of  the  sum  he  had  refused  me.  I  concealed  nothing;  I 
did  not  dissimulate.  You  had  my  effects  searched.  Did 
you  find  the  money  which  you  accuse  me  of  having 
taken  ?" 

"  Your  accomplice  of  course  has  the  money,"  said  the 
magistrate,  sententiously. 

"  But  I  have  no  accomplice,  nor  am  I  a  criminal  my- 
self," said  Xavier. 

"  Let  us  look  at  things  in  their  true  light,"  said  the 
magistrate.  "  You  took  the  keys  and  opened  the  safe. 
While  you  were  busy  abstracting  the  money,  your  father, 
awakened  by  the  noise,  appeared.  You,  the  son,  were 
bewildered,  stupefied,  overpowered,  by  fear  and  remorse. 
Your  accomplice,  on  the  contrary,  hoping  to  escape  pun- 
ishment by  a  new  crime,  threw  himself  upon  M.  Pom- 
ereul.  A  terrible  struggle  took  place,  in  which,  I  admit, 
you  may  not  have  taken  any  part.  A  third  actor  appeared 
upon  the  scene;  it  was  Lipp-Lapp,  who  attempted  to  de- 


I  imi'ii.HL'H.ii»iiwmi.|iiJminWi).<m.j 


Ity,  and  followed  him 
If  in  presence  of  the 
,r  the  words  addressed 

iTou  do  not  believe  it; 
jnstrous  collection  of 
ou  place  the  proof  of 
ill  repeat  at  the  bar  of 
the  world,  that  I  did 
uestions  are  horrible 
lain  silent,  and  I  de- 
i  me,  I  shall  refuse  to 

,  severely. 

id  Xavier.  "  I  spoke 
less.  I  confessed  my 
empt  to  rob  my  father 
concealed  nothing;  I 
sffects  searched.  Did 
iccuse  me  of  having 

the  money,"  said  the 

am  I  a  criminal  my- 

■  true  light,"  said  the 
and  opened  the  safe. 
tie  money,  your  father. 
You,  the  son,  were 
,  by  fear  and  remorse, 
hoping  to  escape  pun- 
imself  upon  M.  Pom- 
ice,  In  which,  I  admit, 
\  third  actor  appeared 
,  who  attempted  to  de- 


THE  INVIOLABLE  SECRET. 


"3 


, 


fend  his  master,  and  fell  wounded  in  his  turn.  Your 
accomplice  fled  and  you  crept  terrified  to  your  room.  I 
admit  that  you  may  have  been  merely  the  passive  spec- 
tator of  a  murder.  But  a  murder  was  committed.  If 
you  did  not  strike  the  blow, who  did?  Name  the  mur- 
derer if  you  do  not  wish  the  consequences  to  fall  upon 
your  own  head." 

"  Sir,"  said  Xavier,  "  my  mind  seems  to  wander  and 
grow  hazy.  I  scarcely  know  myself  when  I  hear  you 
picturing,  with  such  terrible  distinctness,  events  which 
you  seem  to  see,  to  render  visible,  tangible,  and  which 
weigh  upon  me  and  oppress  me  like  some  horrible  night- 
mare. I  will  not  answer  you  farther,  because  I  scarcely 
understand.  I  cannot  answer  farther,  for  I  am  becom- 
ing crazed." 

"  Of  course  I  cannot  force  you  to  do  so,"  said  the  mag- 

•istrate;  "but  for  your  own  sake  I  regret  the  attitude  you 

have  taken,  and  I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  your 

refusal  to  answer  will  have  an  unfavorable  effect  upon 

the  minds  of  your  judges." 

"  M.  Gaubert,"  said  Xavier,  "  I  have  always  heard  you 
spoken  of  as  an  honest,  incorruptible  judge,  and  a  man 
whose  great  skill  and  experience  were  coupled  with  won- 
derful  perception.  Therefore,  if  you  accuse  me,  they 
will  accuse  me.  I  must  be  resigned;  and,  however  great 
the  effort,  I  must  be  brave..  There  are  misfortunes 
which  cannot  be  foreseen,  and  under  which  we  fall  and 
are  crushed." 

The  magistrate  turned  to  the  jailer.  "  M.  Pomereul  is 
remanded,"  he  said.     Then  to  Xavier: 

"  From  this  time  forth  you  are  no  longer  under  se- 
crecy." . 

"  I  shall  then  be  allowed  to  communicate  with  my  fam- 
ily?" said  Xavier. 

»  As  far  as  the  rules  will  permit,"  said  the  magistrate. 


r 


r ! 


114 


IDOLS. 


"  I  have  written  a  letter.    Can  it  be  sent  ?"  asked  Xavier. 

"  After  the  director  has  examined  it,"  replied  the  mag- 
istrate. 

"You  tell  me  that  I  am  no  longer  under  secrecy,"  said 
Xavier;  "  but  what  is  more  sacred  than  a  letter  wherein 
I  show  to  my  dearest  friends,  without  any  shame  or  dis- 
guise, a  heart  crushed  as  mine  is  ?"  , 

"  It  is  the  rule,"  said  the  magistrate. 

Xavier  followed  the  jailer.  When  he  reached  his  cell 
he  tore  up  the  long  letter  which  he  had  written  to  Sul- 
pice,  and  contented  himself  with  writing  simply, 

"Come  !  I  am  waiting  for  you  !" 

The  unfortunate  prisoner  passed  a  sleepless  night. 
He  counted  the  time  told  by  the  great  clock,  which  he 
could  hear  striking  the  hour.  The  night  seemed  inter- 
minable to  him.  He  paced  his  narrow  cell,  listened  to 
the  step  of  the  jailer  in  the  corridor  without,  half  hoping,* 
with  a  sort  of  vague  hope,  that  it  might  be  Sulpice  com- 
ing to  visit  him.     At  last  a  jailer  appeared. 

"  You  are  wanted  in  the  parlor,"  said  he. 

Xavier  barely  suppressed  a  cry  of  joy,  passed  through 
various  halls  till  he  found  himself  in  a  large  room.  He 
looked  for  Sulpice,  but  saw  no  one.  At  last  the  jailer 
pointed  to  where  his  brother  stood  motionless  at  a  little 
iron  grating,  separated  by  a  strip  of  wall  from  a  similar 
one.  Xavier  could  not  throw  himself  into  his  brother's 
arms,  nor  even  press  his  hand.  Bitter  was  the  disap- 
pointment, but  he  approached  the  grating  and  said,  in  a 
tremulous  Voice: 

"  Sulpice,  my  dear  Sulpice,  it  is  really  you.  You  do  not 
accuse  me  of  this  crime.  In  your  heart  you  believe  me 
innocent.     And  does  Sabine  know  that  I  am  not  guilty  ?" 

"  We  both  pity  you,  and  in  your  trial  hold  you  far 
dearer  than  ever  before.  You  were  foolish,  extravagant, 
but,  oh  !  you  were  not  wicked." 


4 


<\ 


m 


^ 


!  sent  ?"  asked  Xavier. 
it,"  replied  the  mag- 

•  under  secrecy,"  said 
than  a  letter  wherein 
ut  any  shame  or  dis- 

ite. 

n  he  reached  his  cell 
:  had  written  to  Sul- 
iting  simply, 

d  a  sleepless  night, 
freat  clock,  which  he 

night  seemed  inter- 
rrow  cell,  listened  to 
without,  half  hoping,* 
light  be  Sulpice  com- 
peared, 
said  he. 

joy,  passed  through 
1  a  large  room.  He 
e.  At  last  the  jailer 
motionless  at  a  little 

wall  from  a  similar 
elf  into  his  brother's 
titter  was  the  disap- 
p'ating  and  said,  in  a 

Jly  you.  You  do  not 
leart  you  believe  me 
lat  I  am  not  guilty  ?" 
ir  trial  hold  you  far 
foolish,  extravagant, 


.1 


Till':    INVIOLAltLE   SECRET. 


"5 


"You  do  me  so  much  good,  Sulpice,"  said  Xavier; 
"  but,  oh  !  if  others  could  hear  you." 

"  God  will  make  known  the  truth,"  said  Sulpice. 

"Weak  and  foolish  as  I  have  been,  Sulpice,"  said 
Xavier,  "  I  did  not  deserve  that  Heaven  should  send  so 
terrible  a  punishment  for  my  sins.  I  am  innocent,  but 
how  convince  the  world  of  it— how  prove  it  to  the  judge, 
who  questioned  me  again  yesterday  evening  and  found 
so  many  strong  arguments  against  me  ?  Everything 
worked  with  such  infernal  smoothness,  and  there  is  so 
fatal  an  array  of  circumstances  that,  were  I  a  judge  and 
did  such  a  one  as  myself  appear  before  me,  I  believe  that 
I  would  condemn  him,  as  M.  Gaubert  has  accused  and 
condemned  me." 

"Ah,  misguided  man!"  said  Sulpice. 

"  He  is  right,  as  a  man  and  a  judge,"  said  Xavier. 
"  The  crime  was  committed  and  I  was  alone— alone.  He 
told  me  I  must  find  the  other." 

"  The  other,  yes,  the  other,"  repeated  the  Abb6  Sul- 
pice, turning  pale. 

"The  wretch  whom  he  calls  my  accomplice,"  cried 
Xavier,  excitedly,  "  I  call  the  true,  sole,  and  only  mur- 
derer. But  I  am  in  prison;  I  cannot  go  in  search  of  him 
nor  assist  justice.  It  seems  to  me  that,  were  I  free,  I 
should  know  him  without  ever  having  seen  him,  such 
horror  and  remorse  must  his  crime  have  left  upon  his 
face.  Ah,  that  accursed  wretch;  who  will  bring  him  be- 
fore the  judge  and  the  tribunal  of  justice  to  confess  his 
crime  and  restore  me  my  honor  ?" 

"I  will  find  him  in  this  Paris,  large  as  it  is,"  cried 
Sulpice,  half  frenzied.  "  I  will  recognize  the  house.  I 
will  throw  myself  at  that  man's  feet.  I  will  say  to  him, 
Release  me  from  my  oath.  I  will  not  be  like  Cain— the 
murderer  of  my  brother." 

Xavier  gave  a  cry. 


/ 


11 


li 


ilTniMiilBillili 


116 


IDOLS. 


>     i'l 


"  You  know  him,"  he  cried;  "  you  know  him!" 

But  the  Abb6  Sulpice  had  already  recovered  from  the 
brief  hallucination  during  which  he  had  disclosed  the 
fact  that  he  possessed  the  clue  to  the  terrible  drama  that 
had  convulsed  the  Pomereul  household.  Pale  and  totter- 
ing, he  clung  with  both  hands  to  the  grating  which  sep- 
arated him  from  his  unhappy  brother. 

"So  then  I  am  saved,"  cried  Xavier.  "You  will  go  at 
once  to  M.  Gaubert  and  give  up  the  murderer,  and  I  will 
be  cleared  from  the  horrible  stain  which  rests  upon  me, 
and  the  wretch  will  undergo  the  full  penalty  of  his  crime." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  murmured  Sulpice. 

"Well,"  said  the  prisoner,  "of  course,  that  is  right; 
you  are  a  priest,  and  must  pardon  even  the  murderer  of 
the  best  of  fathers;  you  would  pardon  your  own  mur- 
derer. You  will,  of  course,  do  what  your  conscience 
dictates,  and  grant  to  the  wretch  that  mercy  which  he 
did  not  show  his  victim." 

"  I  cannot  even  do  that,  brother,"  said  Sulpice.  "  I  can- 
not go  to  the  ntagistrate  and  say,  '  I  know  the  man,  and 
will  tell  you  his  name.'  " 

"  Do  you  forget  that  the  honor  of  our  name  is  at  stake  ?" 
said  Xavier. 

"  I  do  not  forget,"  replied  Sulpice. 

"  And  that  my  life  is  in  danger  ?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"Yet  you  hesitate  between  your  brother  and  this 
wretch !" 

"  It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  my  brother  here,  but  I  do 
not  hesitate." 

"  I  do  not  understand — I  am  going  mad  !"  cried  Xa- 
vier. "  You  have  discovered  the  murderer,  and  will  not 
denounce  him." 

"  I  did  not  discover  him,"  said  Sulpice;  "  he  confessed 
it  all  to  me." 


know  him!" 

recovered  from  the 
e  had  disclosed  the 
e  terrible  drama  that 
aid.  Pale  and  totter- 
:  grating  which  sep- 
!r. 

;r.  "  You  will  go  at 
murderer,  and  I  will 
'hich  rests  upon  me, 
penalty  of  his  crime." 
ice. 

)urse,  that  is  right; 
ven  the  murderer  of 
don  your  own  mur- 
hat  your  conscience 
hat  mercy  which  he 

said  Sulpice.  "  I  can- 
know  the  man,  and 

lur  name  is  at  stake  ?" 


r  brother  and  this 

>ther  here,  but  I  do 

ig  mad !"  cried  Xa- 
irderer,  and  will  not 

ipice;  "he  confesged 


n 


THE  INVIOLABLE  SECRET. 


117 


"  And  what  matters  your  oath  of  silence,  if  you  did 
give  su  :h  an  oath  >  a  murderer,  when  it  will  lead  to  my 
destruction  ?  Who  can  release  you  from  It  ?  The  arch- 
bishop? the  Holy  Father  himself?  Why,  ho  would  tell 
you  to  speak." 

"  But,"  said  Sulpice,  "  it  is  not  merely  a  promise  made 
to  the  criminal  himself,  Xavier;  it  is  an  oath  made  to 
God — a  solemn  oath  from  which  no  one  can  release  me, 
not  even  the  Pope.  Yes,  I  know  the  name  of  him  who 
murdered  our  father,  and  I  cannot  speak  it.  One  word 
from  my  lips  would  set  you  free,  and  I  must  still  be 
silent.  I  beg  your  mercy  and  forgiveness,  brother;  for, 
even  were  you  to  die,  I  dare  not  disclose  the  name  nor 
unveil  the  face  of  our  father's  murderer.  Know  that 
that  which  binds,  and  at  the  same  time  is  killing  me,  is 
the  sublime  and  terrible  thing  which  they  call  the  secret 
of  confession." 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Xavier,  "  but  it.  does  not  oblige  you  to 
let  me  die.  I  respect  that  secret;  it  guarantees  the  in- 
violability of  a  penitent's  avowal;  but  when  my  head  is 
concerned,  it  is  different.  You  will  not  let  me  die,  that 
you  may  remain  faithful  to  your  vow.  When  you  swore 
inviolable  secrecy  as  to  the  confessions  received  by  you  in 
the  tribunal  of  penance,  of  course  you  could  not  foresee 
being  placed  between  your  own  brother  and  a  murderer. 
If  you  are  silent,  Sulpice;  it  will  not  be  the  law  that 
condemns  me  to  die,  but  you.  I  will  no  longer  blame 
the  judges,  but  I  will  curse  you," 

"  Ah,"  said  the  priest;  "  what  you  ask  is  impossible." 

"  You  will  let  me  be  tried  and  condemned  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  will  see  me  brought  before  the  Court  of  Assizes, 
sooner  than  reveal  the  truth  ?" 

"  I  would  give  my  life  to  save  you,  Xavier,"  said  Sulpice, 
"|>ut  I  cannot  be  false  to  my  duty." 


L. 


ii8 


IDOLS. 


I  ( 


I    I 

i  i 


1     jiSj 

V      Mil 


liH!     ' 


"But  your  duty  will  make  you  a  fratricide,"  said 
Xavier. 

"  My  God,  my  God  !"  said  Sulpice,  falling  on  his  knees, 
*'  the  trial  is  too  great." 

Xavier  thinking  that  he  had  shaken  his  brother's  reso- 
lution, continued: 

"  I  know  how  sacred  you  hold  the  word  duty.  I  re- 
spect no  other  man  or  priest  as  I  do  you,  Sulpice;  yet, 
if  you  persist  in  this  cruel  silence,  I  shall  no  longer 
regard  you  with  veneration,  but  with  horror." 

"Xavier,"  said  the  priest,  in  a  broken  voice,  "you 
remember  when  we  were  all  children,  we  read  books 
which  described  the  agony  of  the  martyrs.  To  urge 
them  to  apostacy,  a  mother,  sister,  or  friend  was  sent 
into  the  cell.  They  cast  themselves  before  the  new-made 
Christian,  begging  him  to  burn  incense  before  the  idols, 
and  renounce  the  Crucified.  They  said  to  him,  ivhat  you 
now  say  to  me,  '  Sell  your  soul  for  love  of  us  ! ' " 

"Yes,"  cried  Xavier,  frantically;  "sell  your  soul,  re- 
nounce your  God,  be  false  to  your  priestly  vow,  risk 
eternal  damnation  if  it  is  necessary,  but  oh,  save  me  !" 

"Wretched  boy!"  cried  Sulpice,  "you  have  lost  your 
faith." 

"  I  would  trample  the  image  of  your  God  under  my 
feet,  if  He  obliged  you  to  doom  me  to  death.  '  He  is  a 
cruel  master  who  strikes  me  through  your  unrelenting 
honor  as  a  priest.  If  you  pe'-ist,  Sulpice,  I  will  appeal 
to  the  court,  to  the  jury,  to  the  whole  world:  He  knows 
the  guilty  one,  and  will  not  reveal  his  name.  And  the 
law  will  oblige  you  to  tell." 

"  You  mistake,  Xavier,"  said  Sulpice;  "  it  respects  the 
rigorous  law  which  seals  my  lips." 

"And  I  who  do  not  respect  it,"- cried  Xavier,  "will 
curse  you  when  the  evidence  accumulates  against  me. 
I  will  curse  you  when  I  hear  my  sentence  from  the  judge, 


mmmmm 


>u  a  fratricide,"  said 

:e,  falling  on  his  knees, 

sen  his  brother's  reso- 

the  word  duty.  I  re- 
:  do  you,  Sulpice;  yet, 
ce,  I  shall  no  longer 
ith  horror." 
i  broken  voice,  "you 
Idren,  we  read  books 
lie  martyrs.  To  urge 
;r,  or  friend  was  sent 
!S  before  the  new-made 
cense  before  the  idols, 
r  said  to  him,  vrhat  you 
r  love  of  us  ! ' " 
■;  "sell  your  soul,  re- 
our  priestly  vow,  risk 
y,  but  oh,  save  me  !" 
!,  "  you  have  lost  your 

f  your  God  under  my 
me  to  death.  'He  is  a 
)ugh  your  unrelenting 
,  Sulpice,  I  will  appeal 
hole  world:  He  knows 
il  his  name.    And  the 

Ipice;  "it  respects  the 

t,"' cried  Xavier,  "will 
;cumulates  against  me. 
intence  from  the  judge, 


ii 


THE  INVIOLABLE  SECRET. 


119 


r 

I  and  when  the  foreman  of  the  jury  gives  the  verdict  of 
his  colleagues.  I  will  curse  you  when  the  presiding 
judge  reads  the  death  penalty,  and  my  last  words  upon 
the  scaffold  will  be  to  curse  you." 

"  Miserere  mei,  Deus,"  murmured  the  priest. 

His  face  was  deathly  pale;  a  mist  gathered  before  his 
eyes;  his  brother's  words  seemed  to  pierce  his  very  soul. 
Meanwhile,  Xavier  clutched  at  the  iron  bars,  his  features 
were  distorted,  his  lips  covered  with  foam,  he  seemed 
the  very  image  of  despair.  His  brother's  heroic  virtue 
roused  him  to  fury.  Unable  to  conceive  the  martyrdom 
which  the  hapless  priest  was  undergoing,  he  overwhelmed 
him  with  cutting  reproaches  and  bitter  taunts.  At  last, 
f  maddened  at  sight  of  him,  who  was  even  then  offering 
I  his  life  in  exchange  for  his  brother's,  Xavier  cried,  shaking 
I      the  iron  bars  in  his  fury, 

"  Go,  I  say,  go  !" 

"  May  I  come  again  ?"  asked  .Sulpice. 

"  No,"  cried  Xavier;  "  the  very  sight  of  you  fills  me 
with  horror.     May  you  be  accursed  !  Cain!  Cain!" 

The  priest  crept  away  from  the  bars,  pursued  by  the 
horrible  cry, 

Cain!  Cain! 


gMi 


I20 


IDOLS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  New  Misfortune. 


Hi 

H   • 


The  Abb6  Sulpice  was  in  his  father's  study,  looking 
over  some  papers,  when  Sabine  entered.  The  young 
girl  dressed  in  black  bore  even  more  in  her  heart  than  in 
her  costume  the  deepest  mourning  for  her  father  and  her 
own  happiness;  she  paused  a  moment  mute  and  motion- 
less before  her  brother.  She  regarded  him  with  compas- 
sion mingled  with  profound  admiration;  and  yet  it  seemed 
that  the  deep,  tender  affection  she  had  once  felt  for  him 
was  lessened  somehow  in  her  heart;  he  was  henceforth 
too  great,  too  far  above  her.  Something  of  that  fear  was 
upon  her  which  kept  from  their  side  the  wives,  daughters 
or  sisters  of  the  prophets,  of  those  whom  the  Lord 
seemed  to  draw  near  to  His  own  glory,  and  cover  at  all 
times  with  His  shadow.  Sabine  had  just  come  from  the 
prison. 

She  had  gone  thither  attended  by  Baptiste,  who  waited 
without  in  the  anteroom,  and  h^d  learned  from  Xavi- 
er's  lips  the  scene  which  had  taken  place  between  the 
brothers  on  the  previous  evening.  Her  first  feeling  was 
one  of  profound  astonishment;  her  second,  a  species  of 
awe  inspired  by,  Sulpice's  exalted  virtue,  which  seemed 
to  human  eyes  so  near  cruelty.  From  that  moment  her 
whole  heart  went  out  towards  Xavier.  He  alone  seemed 
suffering;  she  pitied  only  him.  Xavier's  affliction  was 
so  entire,  so  horrible,  that  she  forgot  the  agony  which 
Sulpice  was  enduring.  She  did  not  renounce  him,  but 
her  heart  no  longer  sought  him. 

Alas!  in  those  hours  of  terrible  suffering,  during  that 
ordeal,  to  which  few  men  were  ever  subjected,  Sulpice. 


«'twM»aiit««e) 


c. 


JNE. 


ither's  study,  looking 
entered.  The  young 
re  in  lier  heart  than  in 
for  her  father  and  her 
ent  mute  and  motion- 
ded  him  with  compas- 
;ion;  and  yet  it  seemed 
had  once  felt  for  him 
t;  he  was  henceforth 
thing  of  that  fear  was 
3  the  wives,  daughters 
ose  whom  the  Lord 
flory,  and  cover  at  all 
id  just  come  from  the 

Y  Baptiste,  who  waited 
1  learned  from  Xavi- 
en  place  between  the 
Her  first  feeling  was 
r  second,  a  species  of 
virtue,  which  seemed 
rom  that  moment  her 
er.  He  alone  seemed 
Lavier's  affliction  was 
'got  the  agony  which 
ot  renounce  him,  but 

suffering,  during  that 
irer  subjected,  Sulpice 


A  NEW   MISFORTUNE. 


121 


had  even  more  need  of  a  friendly  and  consolvag  voice. 
Never  had  Sabine's  affection  and  tenderness  bcemed  more 
desirable  than  in  this  hour  when  both  failed  him.  Yet 
he  did  not  reproach  her  even  in  thought.  Could  he 
expect  from  this  child  the  superhuman  strength  which 
he  owed  to  his  priestly  character  ?  Had  he  a  right,  to 
raise  Sabine  to   the  same   height  as   himself? 

He  knew  that  he  would  be  censured  by  men,  cursed 
by  Xavier,  that  his  brethren  in  the  ministry  would  alone 
approve  of  the  course  he  had  taken,  and  that  God  only 
could  console  him.  These  thoughts  flashed  across  his 
mind,  whilst  Sabine,  in  perfect  silence,  stood  regarding 
him  with  pairlul  intentness. 

"  You  saw  him  ?"  asked  Sulpice. 

"  I  saw  him.     He  was  expecting  M.  Renaut" 

"  Did  he  speak  of  me  ?" 

Sabine  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  do  not  fear  to  tell  me  all,"  said  the  young  priest; 
"one  pang  more  or  less  matters  little." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Sabine,  shaking  her  head. 
And  she  added  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  half  ashamed  of 
her  own  words, 

"  I  do  not  understand  myself.  I  thought  I  had  been 
early  formed  by  you  in  the  school  of  sacrifice,  and  it 
once  seemed  to  me  that  however  hard  a  duty  might  be 
it  would  find  me  ready.  But  it  is  not  so.  No,  it  is  not 
so,  Sulpice.  All  my  compassion  remains  with  Xavier.  I 
will  not  tempt  you,  I  do  not  reproach  you,  but  I  feel, 
with  a  sort  of  horror,  that  I  have  forsaken  you  and  pre- 
ferred him." 

Sulpice  took  his  sister's  hand. 

"  Do  not  reproach  yourself,"  said  he;  "  go  to  him.  .Con- 
sole him,  for  consolation  springs  from  your  heart  and 
flows  from  your  lips.  Meanwhile,  if  the  priest's  lips  are 
sealed,  the  man  will  labor  none  the  less  unceasingly. 


^-^niiWiwniiiwiiiiiffiiiii^^ 


12: 


IDOLS. 


i    11! 
i 


w 


I' I 


There  is  a  person  whom  I  must  seek,  find,  soften,  that 
he  may  release  me  from  my  oath,  and  whose  confession 
I  will  purchase  with  my  entire  fortune.  Heaven  can 
bring  this  man  in  my  path,  and  I  will  hope.  To  each 
his  part,  Sabine.  If  I  must  journey  through  the  desert 
with  no  angel  hand  to  point  out  the  spring  of  pure  water, 
if  I  must  bend  beneath  the  burden  of  a  sorrow  misunder- 
stood by  men,  do  not  pity  me.  God  will  keep  account 
of  it.  But  comfort  Xavier,  devote  yourself  to  him.  Bring 
resignation  into  his  soul.  Though  innocent  of  this 
crime  he  has  been  guilty  of  many  faults;  teach  him  to 
accept  the  punishment  patiently,  that  the  hand  of  the 
Lord  may  not  weigh  heavier  upon  him.  We  may  not 
see  much  of  each  other  during  the  next  few  days ;  the 
work  of  justice  is  done  in  the  shadow  and  I  must  strug- 
gle against  it." 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  cannot  rise  to  your  height,"  said 
Sabine. 

"Alas!  my  sister,"  said  the  Abb6  Pomereul,  "were  I 
abandoned  to  myself,  I  know  too  well  how  far  my  weak- 
ness might  lead  me." 

They  held  each  other's  hands  for  some  moments,  their 
lips  trembled,  their  eyes  filled  with  tears;  at  last  they 
bade  each  other  a  reluctant  good  by,  and  Sabine  went 
to  her  room. 

Whilst  the  priest  continued  his  task,  and  Sabine  wrote 
in  her  diary  the  painful  impressions  of  the  day,  L6on 
Renaut  proceeded  to  the  prison  for  a  first  interview 
with  Xavier.  The  young  lawyer  was  only  twenty-eight 
years  of  age.  A  tiative  of  the  South,  he  had  brought 
from  that  land,  where  a  burning  sun  looked  down  upon 
the  sea,  his  taste  for  all  that  was  great,  his  youthful  am- 
bition, his  poetry  and  his  eloquence.  His  examinations 
at  the  law  school  had  been  perfect  triumphs,  and  his 
d^t  had  astonished  even  the  veterans  of  the  profession. 


IWKWii  g 


A  NEW   MISFORTUNE. 


123 


seek,  find,  soften,  that 
,  and  whose  confession 
fortune.  Heaven  can 
I  will  hope.  To  each 
ley  through  the  desert 
e  spring  of  pure  water, 
1  of  a  sorrow  misunder- 
Grod  will  keep  account 
(Tourself  to  him.  Bring 
ugh  innocent  of  this 
y  faults;  teach  him  to 
that  the  hand  of  the 
)n  him.  We  may  not 
le  next  few  days ;  the 
dow  and  I  must  strug- 

e  to  your  height,"  said 

b6  Pomereul,  "  were  I 
well  how  far  my  weak- 

>r  some  moments,  their 
rith  tears;  at  last  they 
d  by,  and  Sabine  went 

task,  and  Sabine  wrote 
>ions  of  the  day,  L6on 
1  for  a  first  interview 
was  only  twenty-eight 
>outh,  he  had  brought 
sun  looked  down  upon 
great,  his  youthful  am- 
ice. His  examinations 
feet  triumphs,  and  his 
irans  of  the  profession. 


I  Renaut  possessed  in  a  rare  degree  the  quality  of  per- 
ception. Inferior  to  many  as  a  consulting  lawyer,  little 
versed  in  the  arts  of  lying  and  deceit,  he  had  a  perfect 
passion  for  difficult,  intricate  or  dramatic  cases,  upon 
which  he  often  threw  a  sudden  light,  and  seizing  the 
more  human  side  of  the  case,  dwelt  upon  it  with  the 
skill  at  once  of  a  novelist  and  a  lawyer. 

His  whole  appearance  had  contributed  to  the  success 
to  which  he  had  already  attained.  He  had  a  finely 
formed  head,  regular  features,  pale  complexion,  and 
large,  brilliant  eyes.  His  finely  modulated  voice  had 
chords  in  it  which  went  to  the  heart.  He  had  a  knack 
of  using  unexpected  expressions  and  producing  spon- 
taneous effects.  If  he  did  not  carry  the  judge  with  him, 
at  least. he  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  jury, 
and  the  opposing  lawyer  dreaded  so  formidable  an  op- 
ponent. He  feared  him  all  the  more  that  the  young 
lawyer  always  adhered  strictly  to  oratorical  or  parlia- 
mentary forms.  None  knew  better  than  he  how  to  pay 
a  tribute  to  the  talent  or  experience  of  his  adversary,  and 
to  wind  up  by  showing  in  the  most  conclusive  manner 
that  he  was  wrong  both  in  fact  and  in  point  of  law. 
When  Benedict  Fougerais  went  to  ask  Renaut  to  under- 
take Xavier's  defence  the  young  Jawyer  held  out  both 
hands  to  him. 

"  Have  no  fear,"  said  he;  "skill  will  be  of  little  avail  in 
such  a  case  as  this;  heart  must  win  the  victory,  and, 
thank  God!  I  have  one  in  my  breast.  Certainly  the  case 
seems  almost  hopeless,  and  the  unfortunate  boy  has  got 
himself  into  the  meshes  of  a  net,  which  encloses  him 
on  every  side,  but  we  will  find  means  to  break  the  net 
and  let  the  poor  fellow  out.  How  often  I  have  seen 
him,  gay,  careless,  light-hearted!  How  he  did  throw 
his  life  to  the  four  winds  of  pleasure!  What  a  prodigal 
youth  has  his  been!     What  mad  infatuation!    The  hand- 


'.'s»gf'»^3i 


P' 


124 


lUOLS. 


I 

r 


some  gamester,  the  agreeable  boon  companion  has  come 
to  this!  An  accusation  which  incurs  capital  punishment! 
I  will  see  him  this  very  day,  and  I  swear,  Benedict,  that 
as  surely  as  God  has  given  me  some  talent  I  will  use  it 
to  defend  him." 

"Thanks,"  cried  Benedict,  "thanks!  I  not  only  re- 
gard Xavier  as  the  friend  and  companion  of  my  youth- 
ful days,  the  son  of  my  benefactor,  but  almost  as  my 
brother." 

"  You  are  to  marry  Sabine  Pomereul  ?"  said  the  law- 
yer. 

"  Her  father  gave  his  consent  to  our  engagement  the 
night  before  his  death.  Since  then,  though,  I  do  not 
know  what  Sabine  has  in  her  head,  but  she  avoids  me. 
Yesterday  she  refused  to  receive  me,  sending  word  that 
her  mourning  did  not  permit  her  to  see  any  one.  Her 
mourning !  as  if  I  had  no  part  in  it.  She  has  no  right  to 
deprive  me  of  being  with  her,  and  trying  to  console  her, 
once  she  has  placed  her  hand  in  mine  and  said,  *  I  will 
be  your  wife.*  You  must  save  Xavier  Pomereul.  Then 
I  shall  have  my  hopes  for  the  future." 

"Yes,"  said  the  lawyer,  "I  understand  what  Mile. 
Pomereul  has  not  yet  told  you.  Young,  wealthy,  of  high 
social  position,  she  was  willing  to  become  your  wife;  but 
if  Xavier  Pomereul  be  condemned,  the  poor  girl  will 
wear  all  her  life  two-fold  mourning  for  the  honor  of  her 
family  and  her  love  for  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  are  right,  L6on,"  said  Benedict;  "  pro- 
cure the  brother's  acquittal  and  the  sister  will  be  restored 
to  me.  Sabine  must  be  the  guardian  angel  of  my  life. 
Ever  since  I  remember,  whilst  the  father  gradually  de- 
veloped my  intellect  and  my  artistic  sentiment,  whilst 
Sulpice  placed  my  inspiration  under  the  guidance  of 
faith,  Sabine  has  seemed  to  me  the  very  personification 
of  domestic  virtues. 


A  NEW   MISFORTUNE. 


125 


companion  has  come 
i  capital  punishment! 
swear,  Benedict,  that 
e  talent  I  will  use  it 

nks!  I  not  only  re- 
panion  of  my  youth- 
r,  but  almost  as  my 

ereul  ?"  said  the  law- 

our  engagement  the 
;n,  though,  I  do  not 
i,  but  she  avoids  me. 
\e,  sending  word  that 
to  see  any  one.  Her 
She  has  no  right  to 
trying  to  console  her, 
nine  and  said,  '  I  will 
tier  Pomereul.  Then 
e." 

derstand  what  Mile. 
)ung,  wealthy,  of  high 
>ecome  your  wife;  but 
d,  the  poor  girl  will 
5  for  the  honor  of  her 

•  said  Benedict;  "  pro- 
:  sister  will  be  restored 
iian  angel  of  my  life. 
e  father  gradually  de- 
Stic  sentiment,  whilst 
nder  the  guidance  of 
le  very  personification 


I  ••  Well,"  said  L^on  Renaut,  "  this  is  another  powerful 

'     mcentive  for  me  to  espouse  her  brother's  cause  with  all 
possible  zeal." 

The  young  men  parted  at  the  prison  gate.  Bene- 
dict went  home,  and  the  lawyer  was  admitted  to  the 
cell  of  his  client.  He  found  him  utterly  prostrate.  The 
occurrences  of  the  past  two  days  had  broken  him  down 
both  in  body  and  mind.  His  paroxysm  of  rage  once 
passed,  he  began  to  remember  Sulpice's  words,  and  to 
repeat  to  himself  that  the  murderer  of  his  father  was  in 
Paris,  and  that  one  word  would  be  sufficient  to  bring 
him  to  justice  and  restore  himself  to  liberty,  but  he  re- 
mained as  if  stricken  by  a  sudden  blow.  Hitherto  he 
had  struggled  against  the  accusation  and  protested  his 
innocence;  but  now  his  courage  seemed  utterly  to  fail 
him.  Where  was  the  use,  was  not  his  cause  already  lost? 
The  sight  of  his  lawyer  seemed  to  arouse  him  from  his 
stupor.  This  handsome,  brave  young  man,  so  full  of  life 
and  vigor,  who  declared  himself  his  champion,  won  his 
heart,  and  finding  the  lawyer  convinced  of  his  innocence 
he  blushed  at  his  own  weakness. 

For  the  first  time  he  opened  his  heart,  displayed  its 
wounds,  and  related  even  the  smallest  details  of  the 
drama  which  seemed  so  incomprehensible,  look  at  it  as 
he  would.  Whilst  L6on  Renaut  took  notes  and  classi- 
fied the  facts,  he  became  more  and  more  convinced  that 
his  client  had  never  even  handled  those  bank-notes, 
which  in  a  moment  of  frenzy  he  had  dreamed  of  appro- 
priating. But  still  the  difficulties  were  many  and  seri- 
ous. Would  his  own  conviction  influence  the  jury?  In 
presence  of  facts  would  presumption  in  favor  of  Xuvier 
have  any  weigh  ?  Certainly  he  had  never  undertaken  so 
difficult  a  case,  and  the  battle  would  be  greater  than  any 
as  yet  lost  or  won  by  the  young  lawyer.  Public  opinion 
ran  strongly  s^inst  Xavier.    At  the  time  instances  of 


iiiiiiiiwMi 


126 


IDOLS. 


wild  and  dissipated  sons  were  becoming  every  day  more 
frequent.  Some  robbed  their  father,  others  ended  their 
career  of  folly  by  a  cowardly  suicide.  Xavier  capped  the 
climax  in  the  long  list  of  those  who  ended  a  precocious 
youth  spent  in  extravagant  folly  by  a  terrible  crime.  Of 
him  an  example  must  be  made  for  other  young  men. 
Society  had  long  been  crying  out  that  the  new  gen- 
eration was  rotten ;  therefore  a  gangrened  member 
must  be  cut  off.  Arrayed  against  Xavier  were  the  en- 
vious whom  he  had  outshone  in  extravagance  and 
luxury,  the  rivals  of  his  successes  on  the  turf,  or  at  the 
theatre,  fathers  of  families,  and  magistrates.  They  rang 
the  changes  in  every  key  on  the  fact  that  an  example 
was  needed.  Renaut  knew  all  this  and  knew  that  it  was 
harder  to  struggle  against  public  opinion  than  to  carry 
the  jury.  He  did  not  conceal  the  truth  from  Xavier,  but 
he  used  the  very  difficulties  which  lay  before  them  to 
stimulate  his  courage. 

"Alone  I  can  do  nothing,"  he  said,  "but  with  you  I 
am  strong.  Your  attitude  in  the  court,  your  replies,  will 
assist  me  greatly.  Between  this  and  the  great  day  of 
our  struggle  collect  your  thoughts  and  take  note  of 
everything  that  may  be  useful  to  me.  Meanwhile,  I  will 
see  the  Abb6  Sulpice." 

"  You  will  get  nothing  from  him,"  said  Xavier, 
"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Renaut;  "I  will  obtain  from 
the  man  and  the  brother  what  is  due  to  justice.  He 
can  speak  as  follows  without  betraying  his  sacred  office: 
Two  men  were  on  the  stairs  when  I  went  in;  they 
came  for  me;  while  I  was  with  them  they  played  a 
sacrilegious  farce,  made  use  of  a  base  subterfuge  to  force 
me  to  silelice." 

"But  who  will  believe  so  dark  and  mysterious  an  act 
in  this  drama  which  seems  devised  on  purpose  for  my 
ruin?" 


-  I  iimairffWiT-w 


)ming  every  day  more 
icr,  others  ended  their 
le.  Xavier  capped  the 
lo  ended  a  precocious 
y  a  terrible  crime.  Of 
for  other  young  men. 
t  that  the  new  gen- 
i  gangrened  member 
t  Xavier  were  the  en- 
in  extravagance  and 
i  on  the  turf,  or  at  the 
agistrates.  They  rang 
fact  that  an  example 
s  and  knew  that  it  was 
opinion  than  to  carry 
truth  from  Xavier,  but 
:h  lay  before  them  to 

said,  "  but  with  you  I 
:ourt,  your  replies,  will 
and  the  great  day  of 
hts  and  take  note  of 
me.     Meanwhile,  I  will 

n,"  said  Xavier, 
ut;  "I  will  obtain  from 
s  due  to  justice.  He 
aying  his  sacred  office: 
vhen  I  went  in;  they 
1  them  they  played  a 
Dase  subterfuge  to  force 

and  mysterious  an  act 
;ed  on  purpose  for  my 


A  NEW    MISFORTUNE. 


i3jr 


"It  will  be  believed, because  your  brother  \.  il  declare 
it,"  said  the  lawyer;  "  his  reputation  for  sanctity  will 
leave  no  room  for  doubt.  However  brief  his  testi- 
mony it  will  suffice.  The  presiding  judge,  jury,  etc., 
will  divine  the  truth,  which  it  is  forbidden  the  ministry 
of  God  to  reveal.  They  will  understand  that  the  real 
culprit  exists,  and  that  nothing  remains  for  them  but  to 
release  you." 

"You  are  right,"  cried  Xavier,  "and  I  will  cling  to 
this  hope.  If  you  believe  in  me,  I  must  not  lose  faith  in 
myself.  I  owe  it  to  Sabine,  Benedict,  and  the  few  friends 
who  refuse  to  believe  me  a  ruffian." 

"Well,  keep  up  your  courage,"  said  Renaut,  "the  bat- 
tle has  commenced.     I  will  come  every  day." 

Whilst  Sabine  went  daily  to  console  and  encourage 
the  prisoner,  whilst  Leon  Renaut  endeavored  to  keep 
up  his  strength,  and  whilst  Xavier  alternated  between 
hope  and  despair,  Sulpice  was  scouring  Paris  for  the  es- 
caped convict,  who  held  in  his  hands  the  destiny  of  his 
family.  It  seemed  to  him  that  God  must  put  the  mur- 
derer in  his  way,  and  that  he  must  conquer  him  by  gen- 
tle persuasion.  It  seemed  that  his  sufferings  were  great 
enough  to  merit  such  a  reward.  Every  day  he  set  out 
and  wandered  hap-hazard  through  the  streets,  having 
but  one  object  in  view.  He  visited  the  prisons,  the  low- 
est parts  of  the  city,  scanned  every  group,  peered  at  dark 
figures  by  night,  and  followed  men  whose  gait  or  ap- 
pearance reminded  him  of  Jean  Machil.  He  was  forever 
consumed  by  this  burning  thirst.  His  nerves  seemed 
strained  to  the  utmost,  like  the  cords  of  an  instrument 
where  the  tension  is  so  great  that  but  little  more  will 
suffice  to  snap  them.  He  returned  home^late  at  night, 
utterly  exhausted,  his  head  burning,  his  feet  swollen  and 
painfuk  Prayer  seemed  to  refresh  him  unspeakably. 
He  found  in  it,  not,  indeed,  forgetfulness,  but  strength; 


128 


IDOLS. 


and  the  next  day,  sustained  by  his  brotherly  affection, 
he  set  out  again  on  his  wearisome  quest,  ever  hopinjj 
and  expecting  to  find  himself,  some  midnight,  perchance, 
face  to  face  with  his  father's  murderer. 

Once  he  went  to  the  quay.  It  was  full  of  gaudily 
dressed,  showy  looking  people.  The  day  was  one  of 
bright  sunlight.  Every  one  seemed  happy  in  the  very 
fact  of  existence,  though  the  political  news  was  any- 
thing but  hopeful.  A  declaration  of  war,  however, 
seemed  to  every  one  the  sure  precursor  of  victory.  ^  No 
one  feared  for  the  future  of  that  great  army.  The  past 
was  the  best  guarantee  for  the  approaching  struggle. 
When  the  sound  of  trumpets  or  the  measured  tread  of  a 
battalion  struck  upon  the  ears  of  the  crowd,  dispersing 
them  to  right  and  left,  a  murmur  of  delight  greeted  the 
soldiers.  Their  ia^posing  appearance  and  martial  mien 
was  freely  admired;  already  the  people  saw  them  re- 
turning as  conquerors,  and  bouquets  were  often  show- 
ered upon  them  as  they  passed. 

Sulpice  loitered  about  that  portion  which  lies  near 
the  prison.  All  along  the  quay  dealers  in  second- 
hand books  displayed  their  wares  to  the  passers-by.  At 
sov%->e  little  distance  from  the  last  book-stall  a  crowd 
were  surrounding  a  man  who  stood  behind  a  wooden 
table,  so  formed  that  he  could  close  it  up  and  move  it 
at  will.  This  table  served  as  a  balustrade,  keeping  the 
juggler  apart  from  the  crowd.  Dressed  in  a  sort  of  dark 
velvet  blouse,  holding  in  his  hand  a  black  felt  hat,  the 
actor,  who  seemed  to  be  remarkably  dextrous,  changed 
the  expression  of  his  face  with  wonderful  art,  and  with 
astonishing  rapidity.  The  hat  was  twisted  into  every 
variety  of  form,  and,  each  one  being  accompanied  by 
appropriate  movements  of  the  musctes  of  the  face,  the 
man  was  rendered  almost  unrecognizable.  If  you  have 
read  Poussin's  £^d€s  sur  les  Passions  de  VAnu,  you  can 


MMfMl 


wfti«iiiri<miaitiiiiiMiiiwi^^ 


•f    ^'  III       Til   .    ■   I    «tt    ■-fc-i'M  I 


s  brotherly  affection, 
e  quest,  ever  hoping 

midnight,  perchance, 
rer. 

was  full  of  gaudily 
The  day  was  one  of 
ed  happy  in  the  very 
itical  news  was  any- 
3n  of  war,  however, 
ursor  of  victory.  ^  No 
reat  army.  The  past 
ipproaching  struggle. 
;  measured  tread  of  a 
the  crowd,  dispersing 
>f  delight  greeted  the 
ince  and  martial  mien 
people  saw  them  re- 
lets were  often  show- 

rtion  which  lies  near 
y  dealers  in  second- 
to  the  passers-by.  At 
it  book-stall  a  crowd 
>od  behind  a  wooden 
ise  it  up  and  move  it 
lalustrade,  keeping  the 
-essed  in  a  sort  of  dark 
1  a  black  felt  hat,  the 
bly  dextrous,  changed 
onderful  art,  and  with 
as  twisted  into  every 
leing  accompanied  by 
uscks  of  the.  face,  the 
gnizable.  If  y9u  have 
wns  de  I'Anu,  you  can 


kfiai'-: 


A  NEW  MISFORTUNE. 


Wf 


form  some  idea  of  this  man,  reproducing  by  turns  the 
most  opposite  expressions  with  a  skill  which  was  really 
artistic.  Children  laughed  till  they  cried;  nurses  forgot 
their  errand;  urchins  shouted  for  very  glee,  and  every 
minute  the  crowd  grew  greater,  till  it  became  impos- 
sible to  pass.  The  policemen,  attracted  by  the  spec- 
tacle, forgot  to  cry  "  Move  on,"  and  Sulpice,  about  to 
cross  the  street,  found  it  impossible.  Seeing  that  he 
could  not  get  on,  he  ren  ained  unwillingly  enough, 
waiting  till  some  movement  of  the  crowd  might  permit 
him'to  pass.  By  the  merest  chance  he  glanced  at  the 
performer.  Like  a  flash  came  a  memory  to  him.  Yet 
at  first  sight  there  was  nothing  about  this  man  to  dis- 
turb Sulpice;  he  was  a  mountebank  exercising  his  pro- 
fession with  the  ease  of  long  habit.  He  laughed,  he 
made  jokes  and  grimaces,  his  countenance  seemed  open 
and  simple  as  a  child's,  and  yet  Sulpice  was  involuntarily 
convinced  that  this  face  with  its  multifarious  expres- 
sions belonged  to  Jean  MachA,'  the  convict.  The  very 
intensity  with  which  the  Abb6  Pomereul  regarded  him 
seemed  to  have  a  certain  fascination  for  the  performer, 
and  the  priest  noticed  a  slight  twitching  of  the  eyes,  and 
saw  that  he  seemed  to  lose  something  of  his  animation. 
In  fact  there  was  a  sinister  gleam  of  feared  defiance  in 
the  mountebank's  eyes  which  would  have  dispelled  all 
doubt  as  to  his  identity,  if  doubt  had  remained  in  the 
abba's  mind.  A  sort  of  struggle  began  at  once  betwean 
Jean  Machil  and  the  priest.  The  former  sought  to  es- 
cape the  latter.  Sulpice,  thanking  God  for  having  at 
last  brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  murderer,  was  re- 
solved to  follow  him  wheresoever  he  went,  and  to  wait 
as  long  as  he  might  be  inclined  to  exhibit  himself  to  the 
public. 

Jean  Machd  felt  his  vivacity  diminish  as  his  irritation 
increased.    Whatever  the  Abb6  Pomereul  might  have  to 


t^. 


j'"^%a8gigia8iiiitM!tiaiiii^  'd!>«^^-^ 


IDOLS. 


say,  he  dreaded  an  interview  vvitii  him.  Finding  no  far- 
ther inspiration  for  the  performance  with  which  he  iiad 
hitherto  regaled  the  crowd  gratis,  Jean  MachA  brou^'lu 
his  hand  down  upon  thti  shoulder  of  a  boy  of  fourte<n 
or  thereabouts,  in  wliom  it  was  easy  to  recognize  Pommc 
d'Api. 

"  Play  an  air,"  he  said,  roughly.  "  I  want  to  bring  out 
my  soap." 

While  the  boy  struck  up  an  air  upon  the  organ  as  ;i 
sort  of  overture,  Jean  Machfl,  still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  Abbe  Sulpice,  drew  from  the  table  some  green 
phials  full  of  red  liquid,  and  some  cakes  of  soap  wrap- 
ped in  gilt  paper.  lie  seemed  to  find  less  difficulty  in 
pronouncing  his  customary  panegyric  on  the  articles  in 
question  than  in  improvising  the  jokei  which  preceded 
each  of  his  facial  changes.  The  overture  ended,  the 
farce  had  to  be  played,  the  receipts  taken  in,  and  then  to 
get  away  from  the  place,  or  discover,  if  he  could,  what 
M.  Pomereul's  son  might  want  with  him. 

The  Abb6  Sulpice,  approaching  one  of  the  book-stalls, 
seemed  to  be  intent  on  an  old  Latin  volume,  but  his 
eyes  never  strayed  from  Jean  Machii,  and  the  wretch  be- 
came convinced  that  there  was  no  hope  of  escaping  that 
watchfulness.  He  tapped  Pomme  d'Api  playfully  on 
the  head. 

"  Enough  music,"  he  said.  "  You  must  not  disgust  the 
Conservatory  people." 

Then,  tearing  th^  gilt  paper  from  one  of  the  cakes  of 
soap,  he  began: 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  this  soap  for  removing  stains, 
which  I  have  the  honor  of  offering  to  your  enlightened 
appreciation,  has  been  patronized  by  ail  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe.  Her  Britannic  Majesty  uses  it  for  the 
hands;  the  king  of  Prussia  for  shaving.  It  is  infinitely 
superior  to  the  ordinary  soap  which  housekeepers  em« 


'^^mm 


mm 


A  NEW    MISFORTUNE. 


iSi 


him.     Finding  no  far- 
ice  with  which  he  had     f 
,  Jean  MuchA  broiij^lii       ' 
r  of  a  boy  of  fourte<M 
>y  to  recognize  Ponimc 

"  I  want  to  bring  out 

upon  the  organ  as  ;i 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
1  the  table  some  green 
le  cakes  of  soap  wrap- 
)  find  less  difHculty  ia 
;yric  on  the  articles  in 
joke?  which  preceded 
e  overture  ended,  the 
ts  taken  in,  and  then  to 
iver,  if  he  could,  what 
ith  him. 

^  one  of  the  book-stalls, 
Latin  volume,  but  his 
:hil,  and  the  wretch  be- 
I  hope  of  escaping  that 
ne  d'Api  playfully  on 

>u  must  not  disgust  the 

>m  one  of  the  cakes  of 

ap  for  removing  stains, 
g  to  your  enlightened 
id  by  all  the  crowned 
Majesty  uses  it  for  the 
taving.  It  is  infinitely 
hich  housekeepers  em« 


ploy  in  washing,  to  carbonate  of  soda,  Panama  chips, 
and  all  such.  Come  here,  my  bashful  lad,"  continued 
the  charlatan,  seizing  \ipon  a  raw  lad  who  was  listening 
with  gaping  mouth.  "  You  have  received,  through  your 
mother's  goodness,  a  new  vest  fresh  from  the  shop.  The 
price  is  still  on  it— thirty  francs  sixty-five.  Why,  you 
got  it  for  nothing !  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  see 
the  freshness  of  this  stuff.  I  will  just  spill  this  httle  phial 
of  oil  upon  it,  like  that—" 

And  the  rogue  actually  did  spill  the  oil  upon  the  poor 
boy's  vest,  while  the  latter  made  desperate  efforts  to 
escape  from  the  charlatan's  grasp,  and  only  succeeded  in 
splitting  his  coat. 

"Have  patience,  good  youth,"  said  J..n  Machfl,  with 
a  sardonic  laugh.  "  I  would  surely  not  destroy  such  a 
costly  vest,  had  I  not  the  means  of  restoring  it  to  Us 
pristine  splendor.  You  see  the  stain,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men;  it  has  visibly  increased;  it  has  now  spread  over  the 
entire  back  of  the  garment.  Well,  I  will  now  rub  it  with 
my  soap,  my  incomparable  cleansing  soap,  and  imme- 
diately  it  grows  paler,  becomes  effaced,  disappears  en- 
tirely,  without  leaving  a  trace.  I  ^hauk  you.  worthy 
youth,  for  having  lent  yourself  with  such  good  grace  to 
scientific  experiments.  If  your  mother  should  not  be 
pleased,  go  fearlessly  to  the  shop  at  the  Pont  Neuf. 
Your  money  will    be    returned.     And   now  for  some 

music!" 

Pomme  d'Api  played  a  waltz,  and  meanwhile  twenty 
hands  were  ou.stretched  for  cakes  of  soap. 

"  Order,  order  !  have  some  order  ! '  cried  Jean  Machfl. 
"  TwD  cakes  of  soap  for  you,  madame  ?  One  for  that 
pretty  little  cook?  And  you,  brunette  ?  Come,  come  ? 
only  twenty-four  cakes  remain,  at  sixteen  cents  a  cake.  * 

Machfl  displayed  his  merchandise  under  the  very  eyes 
of  the  police,  to  whom  he  showed  a  license  from  the 


^gnrifisiMiBiiigitoiiaiMiaaii^ 


M>\ 


i ' 


132 


IDOLS. 


prefect  of  police  which  seemed  perfectly  regular.  Mean- 
while, the  Abb6  Sulpice  continued  looking  over  the 
books.  At  last  Jean  Machfl  thought  he  could  escape 
those  watchful  eyes.  Hastily  he  refolded  his  table,  gave 
it  to  Pomme  d'Api,  whispering, 

*•  Go  to  thfe  right;  I  will  go  to  the  left.     Get  back  as 
quick  as  you  can  to  Methusalem's." 

But  this  movement  had  not  been  lost  upon  the  abbe. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  Jean  Mach(jL,  but 
he  had  also  to  consider  his  promise.  His  conscience 
would  not  permit  him  to  compromise  the  ruffian  in  any 
way,  nor  say  or  do  anything  which  might  betray  the 
secret.  He  feigned,  therefore,  to  have  lost  sight  of  him; 
but  scarce  had  Machii  gone  round  the  nearest  corner 
than  the  abb6  followed  him.  Jean  Machd  turned  once, 
but  the  crowd  of  vehicles  prevented  him  from  seeing' 
the  priest,  and  supposing  that  he  had  eladed  him,  he 
rushed  down  the  Rue  Git-le-Coeur.  When  he  reached 
Methusalem's  house  he  turned  again,  but  saw  no  one. 
The  Abb6  Pomereul  had  hidden  himself  in  an  alley  way. 
He  determined  to  wait  till  nightfall,  and  then  have  a  de- 
cisive interview  with  *he  murderer.  He  leaned  against 
the  wall,  pei  fectly  motionless.  He  could  easily  see  from 
his  post  of  observation  what  manner  of  customers  en- 
tered Methusalem's  shop.  They  were  not  purchasers  of 
its  wares,  for  none  came  out  of  that  sinister  abode.  He 
divined  at  once  that  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of  a  most 
dangerous  den,  where  a  visit  from  the  police  would  re- 
sult in  the  arrest  of  many  others  as  well  as  his  father's 
murderer. 

The  day  slowly  waned,  and  night  came — a  dark  night, 
moonless  and  surless.  One  by  one  Methusalem's  cus- 
tomers quitted  the  "boarding-house."  Pomme  d'Api 
sauntered  out,  cig^r  in  mouth,  and  went  on  his  way  to 
Qhatelet  to  exercise  Ms  calling  of  opening  carri«ge-doors 


1!  ' 


,  .,if. 


fectly  regular.  Mean- 
ed  looking  over  the 
ight  he  could  escape 
ifolded  his  table,  gave 

le  left.    Gret  back  as 

n  lost  upon  the  abb6. 
ik  to  Jean  MachCl,  but 
nise.  His  conscience 
lise  the  ruffian  in  any 
ich  might  betray  the 
lave  lost  sight  of  him ; 
d  the  nearest  corner 
1  Machd  turned  once, 
kted  him  from  seeing' 
!  had  eluded  him,  he 
r.  When  he  reached 
gain,  but  saw  no  one. 
imself  in  an  alley  way. 
11,  and  then  have  a  de- 
r.  He  leaned  against 
:  could  easily  see  from 
iner  of  customers  en- 
rere  not  purchasers  of 
it  sinister  abode.  He 
he  vicinity  of  a  most 
1  the  police  would  re- 
is  well  as  his  father's 

tt  came — a  dark  night, 
ne  Methusalem's  cus- 
•use.*'  Pomme  d'Api 
d  went  on  his  way  to 
tpening  carriage-doors 


A  NEW   MISFORTUNE. 


»33 


in  front  of  the  theatre.  Fleur  d'Echafaud  next  appeared 
arm  in  arm  with  a  showily-dressed  young  man.  Soon 
afterwards  a  heterogeneous  party  issued,  in  every  variety 
of  costume. 

Jean  MachQ  came  out  last.  The  searching  glances 
which  he  cast  round  did  not  penetrate  the  abba's  hiding- 
place,  and  just  as  he  passed  the  dark  alley  way  he  made 
a  gesture  which  seemed  to  say, 

"All's  well;  why  should  I  be  uneasy  ?" 

Jean  Machd  went  through  St.  Michel's  Square,  and 
proceeding  along  the  quay,  passed  the  H6tel  Dieu  and 
Notre  Dame. 

He  seemed  lost  In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  night,  when 
a  footstep  close  behind  him  caused  him  to  turn  his  head. 
He 'waited  a  moment  to  see  whether  it  was  simply  a 
passer-by,  or  whether  some  one  was  following  him  of  a 
set  purpose.  As  he  did  so,  a  hand  was  suddenly  laid 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  barely  suppressed  a  cry. 

"  You  are  not  mistaken,  Jean  Machfi,"  said  a  voice, 
which  trembled  with  excessive  emotion;  "it  is  I." 

"  You  promised  to  forget,"  cried  he.  ' 

"  I  swore  that  I  would  not  betray  you." 

"  But  don't  you  understand  that  your  being  seen  with 
me  is  dangerous  ?" 

"  Yes;  otherwise  I  would  have  addressed  you  to-day, 
in  front  of  the  prison,  upon  which  your  gaze  was  fixed, 
as  if  you  feared  lest  its  walls  should  claim  their  prey. 
You  know,  then,  Jean  Machfi,  the  result  of  your  crime, 
and  of  your  diabolical  ingenuity." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  felon. 

"  You  know  that  my  unfortunate  brother  is  accused  in 
your  place,  and  that  in  your  place  he  will,  perhaps,  be 
condemned  to  death  ?" 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  cried  the  ruffian,  in  a  hoarse,  unnat< 
ural  voice.    "All  I  want  is  impunity.     The   law  has 


%i»»i;^ 


'%>jKWMe@iSfiis»«#i)Hii^^#$£^iiW^^  i^mii^^m^^-^-' 


134 


IDOLS. 


111? 

Pi 
sill 


made  a  mistake;  that  is  not  my  business.  Your  brother 
has  his  innocence  to  plead  for  him,  and  besides  a  famous 
lawyer." 

"  Do  you  not  tremble  lest  I,  seeing  my  brother  in  such 
peril,  should  save  him  at  any  price  ?" 

*'  No,"  said  Jean  Machil,  composedly.  ^ 

"  Beware,  Jean  Machfl  !  I  am  but  a  man,  a  weak,  frail 
man,  whose  reason  seems  at  times  to  totter  under  the 
weight  of  a  duty  so  cruel.  Sometimes  I  can  scarcely 
distinguish  right  from  wrong.  My  brother  cursed  me. 
He  will  die  in  despair  if  sentenced  by  the  law.  Machfl, 
remember  that  I  saved  you  once.  Remember  that  I 
promised  to  keep  your  secret,  unconscious  of  the  fatal 
consequences  to  my  nearest  of  kin.  I  gave  you  the 
stolen  gold;  I  freely  pardoned  you  the  blood  which  you 
had  spiled;  but  can  I  bear  to  think  that,  in  screening 
you,  I  am  sending  my  own  brother  to  the  scaffold  ?" 

"  All  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,  Jean  Machd,  the 
thief  and  convict;  what  matters  it  who  I  am?  remember 
who  you  are.  My  identity  was  lost  in  confession;  you 
have  promised,  you  must  keep  your  promise." 

"  Are  you  altogether  pitiless  ?"  cried  the  priest. 

"  Listen,  if  your  brother's  head  doesn't  fall,  mine  will. 
I  must  defend  my  own  life.  I  always  stick  to  that 
through  thick  and  thin,  and  I  stick  to  it  so  closely  that 
there's  no  use  disputing  about  the  matter.  You  will 
not  speak.  I  will  be  outside  the  prison  every  day,  and 
you  will  not  follow  me  any  more.  I  will  be  present  in 
the  court  on  the  day  of  the  trial,  and  you  will  be  silent." 

"  But  if  I  were  to  give  you  the  means  of  flight,  of  going 
to  America?  If  I  were  to  double  the  amount  of  money 
which  you  stole,  would  you  confess  your  crime  ?  A 
letter  from  you  to  the  magistrates  would  procure  an 
acquittal,  and  you  could  save  my  brother,  without  en- 
dangering yourself." 


mmmmm 


mem^.^ 


A  NEW   MISFORTUNE. 


135 


business.     Your  brother 
(Ti,  and  besides  a  famous 

eing  my  brother  in  such 

ce?" 

)sedly. 

but  a  man,  a  weak,  frail 

les  to  totter  under  the 

metimes  I  can  scarcely 

My  brother  cursed  me. 

ed  by  the  law.     MachA, 

ice.     Remember   that  I 

nconscious  of  the  fatal 

kin.     I  gave  you    the 
)u  the  blood  which  you 
:hink  that,  in  screening 
ler  to  the  scaffold  ?" 
ith  me,  Jean  Machd,  the 
it  who  I  am?  remember 
lost  in  confession;  you 
our  promise." 
cried  the  priest. 
1  doesn't  fall,  mine  will. 
I  always  stick  to  that 
lick  to  it  so  closely  that 

the  matter.  You  will 
e  prison  every  day,  and 
B,     I  will  be  present  in 

and  you  will  be  silent." 
means  of  flight,  of  going 
le  the  amount  of  money 
onfess  your  crime  ?  A 
rates  would  procure  an 
ny  brother,  without  en- 


"  I  could  not,"  said  Machd,  "  on  account  of  the  extra- 
dition." 

"Then  my  brother  is  irrevocably  lost." 

"Why,  I  thought,"  said  Rat-de-Cave mockingly,  "that 
you  depended  on  the  justice  of  God." 

"To  it  I  submit,"  said  the  priest;  "nor  do  I  question 
it." 

Jean  Machd  stopped. 

"  See  here,"  said  he,  "  there  is  no  use  prolonging  this  in- 
terview.   You  are  sworn  to  silence.    Keep  your  promise." 

"I  swore  to  be  silent  before  the  people,  before  the 
magistrates,  the  judge  and  jury,  and  that  oath  I  have 
kept  in  spite  of  all  my  sufferings.  But  I  did  not  promise 
that  I  would  not  make  a  last  appeal  to  him  who  alone 
had  power  to  release  me  from  this  oath.  Listen,  Jean 
Machfi,  the  religion  which  I  teach  and  profess  must 
indeed  be  great  and  sublime  to  bind  me  to  such  obedi- 
ence. Then,  in  the  name  of  that  faith,  in  the  name  of 
the  God  whom  I  serve,  I  promise  you  complete  forget- 
fulness,  the  pardon  of  my  divine  Master,  and  even  the 
indulgence  of  men.  My  bppther  is  only  twenty-three. 
He  bears  a  name  hitherto  honorable.  My  sister  is  an 
angel  upon  earth,  and  we  are  all  disgraced  for  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  Jean  Machfi; 
"  it  matters  little  for  me,  the  escaped  convict,  the  hard- 
ened criminal,  who  will  fall  into  the  clutches  of  the  law 
sooner  or  later,  for  some  other  crime;  who  has  passed 
through  the  galleys,  and  belongs  in  advance  to  the 
gallows.  Ah,  well,  perhaps  that  is  just  why  I  cling  so 
fiercely  to  the  few  years  or  months  or  days  of  life  which 
yet  remain  to  me.  I  have  more  money  than  I  ever  had 
in  my  life.  I  want  to  enjoy  it,  to  wallow  in  luxury  like 
a  hog,  to  revel  in  pleasure.    After  that.  Chariot  ♦  can  do 


[ 

i 

1       ^ 
! 

i 

136 


IDOLS. 


what  he  likes  with  me,  and  then  it  will  be  time  for  your 
sermons.  Till  then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Mr.  priest,  you 
must  not  know  me." 

Sulpice  clung  to  the  wretch's  clothes. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "it  must  be  my  fault.  I  have  not 
explained  things  clearly.  You  do  not  understand  my 
terrible  anguish,  the  struggle  which  is  consuming  my 
very  soul.  Have  pity,  have  pity  on  me!  I  do  not  think 
I  ever  injured  any  one  in  my  life.  I  have  lived  for  the 
poor  and  for  God.  Ah,  see  I  am  at  your  feet,  praying, 
weeping;  give  me  my  brother's  life,  my  brother's  life!" 

Jean  Machfl  tried  to  extricate  himself  from  the  priest's 
grasp,  but  the  latter,  knowing  well  that  no  second  op- 
portunity would  ever  occur,  held  on  with  the  energy  of 
despair. 

The  wretch's  anger,  hitherto  counterbalanced  by  a 
feeling  of  mingled  pity  and  admiration,  at  last  got  the 
better  of  the  other  sentiments  so  foreign  to  his  nature. 
He  no  longer  beheld  in  Sulpice  the  man  who  was  saving 
him  by  his  silence,  but  one  who  was  troubling  and  annoy- 
ing him.  4 

•'  Let  me  go,"  cried  he,  savagely,  "some one  is  coming." 

Jean  Machfl  drew  himself  to  his  full  height,  put  his 
feet  firmly  together,  and  with  a  sudden  jerk  backwards, 
shook  off  the  priest  with  his  whole  strength,  and  the 
latter  fell  heavily  on  the  pavement.  His  head  struck 
against  the  parapet  of  the  quay,  and  the  blood  gushed 
out.  Jean  Machd  took  to  his  heels,  and  ran  from  the 
spot  with  all  possible  speed. 


-^«mM 


THE  TRIAL. 


137 


will  be  time  for  your 
li  you,  Mr.  priest,  you 

;hes. 

yr  fault.  I  have  not 
I  not  understand  my 
ch  is  consuming  my 
1  me!  I  do  not  think 
I  have  lived  for  the 
It  your  feet,  praying, 
:,  my  brother's  life!" 
nself  from  the  priest's 
I  that  no  second  op- 
3n  with  the  energy  of 

ounterbalanced  by  a 
-ation,  at  last  got  the 
foreign  to  his  nature. 
!  man  who  was  saving 
;  troubling  and  annoy- 

"some  one  is  coming." 
s  full  height,  put  his 
dden  jerk  backwards, 
ole  strength,  and  the 
int.  His  head  struck 
md  the  blood  gushed 
els,  and  ran  from  the 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Trial. 

A  DENSE  crowd  had  gathered  around  the  court-house. 
The  streets  in  its  vicinity  were  packed  with  a  curious 
throng;  all  the  efforts  of  the  police  only  succeeded  in 
keeping  a  narrow  passarije  for  carriages  and  other  vehi- 
cles. The  court,  the  grand  staircase,  the  halls  and  lobbies 
presented  an  unusually  lively  appearance  on  this  day, 
when  the  court  was  expected  to  sit,  and  to  surpass  in 
interest  a  drama  of  the  Boulevard. 

The  presiding  judge  had  been  fairly  persecuted  with 
applications  for  tickets  of  admission.  Within  the  hall 
were  to  be  seen  numerous  representatives  of  the  very 
best  Parisian  society.  One  foreign  ambassador  had 
begged  them  to  keep  him  an  arm-chair.  The  Minister 
of  Justice  had  announced  his  intention  of  being  present; 
the  ushers  had  to  double  the  row  of  chairs  usually 
reserved  for  distinguished  guests.  Never  had  so  many 
professors  and  students  of  law  assembled  to  hear  so 
thrilling  a  case.  Many  were  the  strategies  employed, 
and  several  young  men  borrowed  a  friend's  cap  and 
gown  to  secure  themselves  a  place  on  the  benches  of  the 
court-room.  The  holders  of  red  tickets  ostentatiously 
displayed  them,  while  others  held  on  to  their  button- 
hole or  even  their  hat,  with  an  alacrity  rarely  seen  any- 
where outside  of  a  steeple-chase. 

Chase  had  in  truth  been  made  after  tickets  for  the  past 
eight  days.  Besides  the  privileged  ones  who  had  tickets, 
an  eager  multitude  filled  the  staircases,  halls,  lobbies, 
even  the  court-yard  outside;  workingmen  and  women, 


msti 


^pwasBiBM 


138 


IDOLS. 


IBI 


tradespeople,  pale,  sickly  children,  all  crowded  about 
the  place,  discussing  the  Pomereul  family,  the  nature  of 
the  crime,  and  the  improbability  of  the  prisoner's  ac- 
quittal. 

Many  of  the  workmen  from  the  factory  at  Charenton 
had  come  thither  to  give  another  proof  of  their  interest 
and  attachment  to  the  family  of  their  old  master.  None 
of  them  felt  any  great  sympathy  for  Xavier.  They  re- 
membered him  as  cold  and  haughty  towards  themselves; 
an  idler  and  a  spendthrift;  in  fact  they  hardly  knew  him. 
But  Antoine  Pomereul,  whose  name  was  on  every  lip, 
together  with  Sulpice  and  Sabine,  still  claimed  their 
warmest  affection  and  gratitude.  As  soon  as  it  became 
known  in  the  crowd  that  this  little  group  of  men  had 
known  the  murdered  man  and  his  children  they  were 
immediately  surrounded,  and  plied  with  questions  as  to 
the  crime  and  its  melancholy  probabilities. 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  a  woman,  "  Mile.  Pomereul  will 
be  at  the  trial  ?" 

"Ah,  she  's  an  angel,"  said  Blanc-Cadet;  "and  she  will 
be  there  if  she  dies  of  shame." 

"  And  the  priest  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  is  another  thing.     He  will  not  appear." 

"  Why,  does  he  disown  his  brother  ?" 

"Then  you  don't  know  all  that  has  happened,"  said 
Blanc-Cadet. 

"  Has  anything  else  happened  in  that  house  ?" 

"A  terrible  thing,"  said  Blanc-Cadet,  impressively; 
"  and  is  connected  with  the  other  affair,  toe.  Some  one 
tried  to  kill  the  Abb6  Sulpice." 

"  To  kill  him .'"  cried  several  voices. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  was  hushed  up  in  the  papers,  out  of  pity 
for  the  wretch  who  did  it;  the  Abb6  Sulpice  refused 
to  denounce  him.  But  one  night,  about  twelve  o'clock, 
the  poor  priest  was  brought  home  in  a  carriage,  un- 


li 


mwiii 


miiiiii^-- 


n,  all   crowded  about 

family,  the  nature  of 

of  the  prisoner's  ac- 

factory  at  Charenton 

proof  of  their  interest 

eir  old  master.     None 

for  Xavier.     They  re- 

ty  towards  themselves; 

they  hardly  knew  him. 

ime  was  on  every  lip, 

le,  still   claimed   their 

As  soon  as  it  became 

;tle  group  of  men  had 

lis  children  they  were 

!d  with  questions  as  to 

labilities. 

I,  "  Mile.  Pomefeul  will 

c-Cadet;  "  and  she  will 


;  will  not  appear." 

her?" 

at  has  happened,"  said 

n  that  house  ?" 
ic-Cadet,  impressively; 
'  affair,  toe.    Some  one 

ices. 

the  papers,  out  of  pity 

Abb6   Sulpice  refused 

U,  about  twelve  o'clock, 

tme  in  a  carriage,  un- 


THE  TRIAL. 


139 


conscious,  and  with  his  head  split  open.  A  passer-by 
found  him  lying  on  the  pavement.  Of  course  the  para- 
pet had  blood  on  it,  and  the  abb6  may  have  struck  his 
head  in  falling.  But  every  one  knows  very  well  that  it 
was  not  an  accident.  As  soon  as  he  came  to,  they  ques- 
tioned him,  but  he  only  said, '  I  fell'  Since  then  his  brain 
has  been  wandering,  and  he  raves  and  raves,  or  keeps 
such  a  silence  that  it  is  sadder  than  any  raving." 

"  There  seems  to  be  some  misfortune  in  that  family," 
said  an  old  man. 

"  Just  think  what  a  burden  Mile.  Sabin ;  has  to  bear. 
She  watched  beside  her  brother  every  night  except  two, 
when  M.  Pomereul's  former  secretary  took  her  place.  I 
used  to  «^hink  that  young  chap  selfish,  but  since  his  mas- 
ter's death  he  is  all  devotion.  It  is  true,  besides  thanking 
him,  they  presented  him  with  six  months'  salary;  but 
even  so,  it  is  not  every  young  man  in  Marc  Mauduit's 
place  that  would  take  such  trouble  about  the  abba's 
health." 

"  But  won't  his  testimony  be  needed,  and  wouldn't  it 
help  his  brother  ?"  said  a  woman. 

"  Well,  well,  God  wants  to  keep  the  secret  to  Himself, 
I  suppose,"  said  Blanc-Cadet.  "  But,  if  I  was  the  judge, 
I'd  do  as  I  have  read  in  books  they  used  to  do  in  old 
times.    I'd  bring  the  man  of  the  woods  into  court." 

"  Lipp-Lapp  ?  "  said  a  child,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  just  Lipp-Lapp,"  said  the  old  man.  "You've 
got  his  name  sure  enough.  A  worthy  beast,  who  was 
almost  killed  defendin'*  his  master.  The  doctor  who 
cured  him  is  an  excellent  man,  and  if  I  belonged  to  the 
'  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Animals,'  I'd  give  him  a 
medal,  so  I  would.  But,  as  I  say,  I'd  bring  Lipp-Lapp 
into  court.  I'd  show  him  the  knife  which  the  murderer 
used,  and  I'd  say  to  him  as  they  say  to  the  hounds, 
'  Catch  him.'    And  if,  when  he  came  face  to  face  with  the 


^-rt-^m. 


mm^"'' 


UK  I 


140 


IDOLS. 


prisoner,  the  man  of  the  woods  didn't  strangle  him,  I'd 
swear  that  M.  Xavier  was  innocent." 

"  Ha,  ha !"  laughed  a  bystander,  "  that  would  be  too 
funny.     It  remind^  one  of  Jocko,  or  the  monkey  of  Brazil. " 

"  It  would  be  contrary  somewhat  to  the  dignity  of  the 
court,"  said  another. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Blanc-Cadet,  "the  dog  of  Montargis 
disturbed  the  dignity  of  the  'judgment  of  God.'  And 
that  was  as  good  a  court  as  this  any  day.  I  maintain 
that  if  Lipp-Lapp  alone  knows  the  truth,  Lipp-Lapp 
alone  should  be  asked  for  it." 

"  And  why  not  the  Abb6  Pomereul  ?"  said  a  voice. 

"  But  he  wasn't  there,"  replied  Blanc-Cadet. 

"  He  knows  everything,"  said  an  old  man. 

"  How  could  he  ?"  asked  the  other. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  have  followed  all  the  trials 
at  the  court,  and  I  am  hardly  ever  mistaken,  and  mark 
my  words,  he  knows  all  about  it." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  tell  it  then  ?"  asked  Blanc-Cadet. 

"  Perhaps  he  can't,"  said  the  other. 

"  What  would  prevent  him  from  declaring  it  to  the 
court,  and  saving  his  brother  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  he's  a  priest,  and  some  way  or  another  they 
might  have  bound  him  to  keep  silent,"  said  the  old  man. 

"But  his  brother?" 

"  As  for  that,"  cried  the  other,  "  if  it  was  himself,  he'd 
have  to  keep  silent  just  the  same." 

"  That  would  be  horrible !"  cried  a  woman. 

"  Of  course  it  would,"  said  the  man,  "but  heroic  and 
grand  for  all  that.  It  would  show  what  the  secrecy 
promised  by  the  priest  is  worth.  Things  like  this  hap- 
pening from  time  to  time  keep  the  people's  faith  alive. 
If  it  be  so,  though,  I  think  the  Abb6  Sulpice  as  great  a 
martyr  as  any  that  we  read  of  in  the  Zives  of  the  Saints." 

This  idea,  started  by  the  old  man,  spread  like  wild-fire 


'wmmm 


idn't  strangle  him,  I'd 

•,  "that  would  be  too 
the  monkey  of  Brazil. " 
it  to  the  dignity  of  the 

♦  the  dog  of  Montargis 
gment  of  God.'  And 
any  day.  I  maintain 
the  truth,  Lipp-Lapp 


THE  TRIAL. 


HI 


eul  ?"  said  a  voice. 

31anc-Cadet. 

1  old  man. 

ler. 

fe  followed  all  the  trials 

;r  mistaken,  and  mark 

isked  Blanc-Cadet. 

ler. 

»m  declaring  it  to  the 

ne  way  or  another  they 
ent,"  said  the  old  man. 

'  if  it  was  himself,  he'd 

d  a  woman. 

!  man,  "  but  heroic  and 
ihow  what  the  secrecy 
Things  like  this  hap- 
he  people's  faith  alive. 
Lbb6  Sulpice  as  great  a 
the  Lives  of  the  Saints." 
an,  spread  like  wild-fire  j 


through  the  eager,  breathless  multitude.  It  produced  a 
feeling  of  profound  commiseration  for  all  concerned,  and 
deepened  the  interest  which  already  centred  around  this 
mysterious  case;  and  the  regret  became  greater  and 
greater  that  the  Abb6  Sulpice  was  unable  to  give  his 
testimony. 

When  the  great  clock  struck  eleven,  the  soldiers  who 
kept  guard  below,  and  regulated  the  admission  to  the 
court-room,  stood  back  a  moment  as  the  ushers  threw 
open  the  doors,  and  the  crowd  rushed  in  like  a  torrent 
which  has  burst  all  barriers.  The  reserved  places,  and 
the  space  without  the  barrier,  kept  for  those  who  had 
no  tickets,  were  simultaneously  filled.  The  law-students 
mounted  to  their  places  on  the  benches,  and  the  report- 
ers seated  themselves  at  their  desks,  some  describing  the 
appearance  of  the  audience,  and  others  preparing  to 
stenograph  the  trial  in  externa. 

Women  took  out  their  opera-glasses  to  see  whom  they 
knew  in  the  stalls.  They  exchanged  smiles,  while  the 
men  saluted  each  other  by  a  wave  of  the  hand.  The  cos- 
tumes were  for  the  most  part  dark,  but  rich  and  elegant. 
It  was  a  play  to  be  sure,  but  of  such  a  character  that 
costumes  of  neutral  tints  were  in  the  best  taste.  The 
lawyers  discussed  the  case  among  themselves  in  an  audi- 
ble voice,  some  condemning  Xavier  in  advance,  others 
defending  him  energetically.  Every  one  looked  forward 
tt>  hearing  L6on  Renaut's  defence,  his  fervid  eloquence, 
and  the  replies  of  the  much  dreaded  Solicitor-General. 
Near  the  benches  for  the  lawyers  sat  some  members  of 
Xavier's  club,  smiling  and  careless,  looking  round  them 
glass  in  eye.  Foremost  was  the  Count  de  Monjoux,  in- 
dulging in  reminiscences  of  the  fine  suppers  he  hard  had 
with  young  Pomereul.  Taken  in  general,  this  assem- 
blage of  curious  people  in  the  court-room  seemed  rather 
as  if  awaiting  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  than  sitting  in 


itmm 


MS 


IDOLS. 


expectation  of  a  death  sentence  against  a  fellow  crea- 

All  at  once  a  sound  as  of  the  murmur  of  voices  was 
heard  in  the  adjoining  room.  The  door  was  thrown 
open  by  two  attendants,  and  the  sonorous  voice  of  the 
usher  proclaimed,      .' 

"Hats  off,  gentlemen!  the  Court." 
A  sudden  death-like  silence  followed  the  solemn  en- 
trance  of  the  magistrates.     The  judges  took  each  his 
place  behind  the  great  table  covered  with  green  cloth, 
upon  which  were  piled  huge  bundles  of  papers.     On  a 
separate  table  were  the  deeds  of  indictment,  numbered 
and  sealed.     The  jury  next  appeared,  each  answering  to 
his  name,  and  then  the  judge  gave  orders  for  the  intro- 
duction  of  the  prisoner.     Men  and  women  rose  tumul- 
tously, and  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  Xavier  Pomereul. 
He  appear'^d  between    two    ^emiannrs.      He  had  sum- 
moned up  all  his  fortitude  for  that  moment  of  entering 
the  court-room.      He   was   deathly   pale.      His    hands 
worked  nervously,  and  as  he  took  his  seat  in  the  dock 
he  scarcely  heard   L6on   Renaufs  whispered  word's  of 
encouragement       The  cruel,  staring,  eager  crowd  be- 
wildered him,  as  the  noisy  pack  bewilders  the  stag.     He 
felt  too  well  that  to  every  tear  which  he  might  shed  a 
cruel  taunt  would  respond.     He  made  a  violent  effort, 
and  steeled  his  face  to  immobility,  whilst  the  lawyer 
looked  over  his  notes  and  deeds.     Xavier,  questioned  -by 
the  judge  as  to  his  name,  surname,  and  condition,  replied 
in  a  voice  scarcely  audible.     The  clerk  then  began  to 
read  the  accusation.     Its  logic  was  overwhelming.     It 
was  written  in  a  sober,  sedate  fashion,  by  a  man  of  tried 
integrity,  with  rare  talent  as  &  dialectician.     Every  point 
of  the  accusation  was  laid  down  with  mathematical  pre- 
cision.    Hearing  it,  there  seemed  no  argument  left  for 
the  defence,  and  not  even  a  single  objection  to  offer  to 


HHI 


'^*Sl*Ji'» 


;ainst  a  fellow  crca- 

irtnur  of  voices  was 
e  door  was  thrown 
morous  voice  of  the 


wed  the  solemn  en- 
udges  took  each  his 
jd  with  green  cloth, 
es  of  papers.     On  a 
idictment,  numbered 
d,  each  answering  to 
orders  for  the  intro- 
women  rose  tumul- 
»on  Xavier  Pomereul. 
ntirs.      He  had  sum- 
moment  of  entering 
jr   pale.      His    hands 
his  seat  in  the  dock 
whispered  woi's  of 
ng,  eager  crowd  be- 
wilders the  stag.     He 
hich  he  might  shed  a 
Tiadc  a  violent  effort, 
ty,  whilst  the  lawyer 
Xavier,  questioned -by 
and  condition,  replied 
clerk  then  began  to 
■as  overwhelming.     It 
ion,  by  a  man  of  tried 
lectician.     Every  point 
'ith  mathematical  pre- 
no  argument  left  for 
e  objection  to  offer  to 


THE  TRIAL, 


143 


that  clear,  concise  statement,  dictated  neither  by  hatred 
nor  prejudice. 

Aware  of  his  own  innocence,  Xavier  was  nevertheless 
completely  overwhclmfid  by  the  force  of  the  accusation. 
Thenceforth  his  mind  entered  upon  a  new  phase.  He 
seemed  no  longer  the  party  concerned  in  all  this;  it  was 
not  his  life,  his  future,  which  was  being  decided,  but  the 
existence  of  another.  From  being  an  actor  in  that 
J  terrible  scene,  the  di'nouement  of  the  bloody  drama  of 
the  Chauss6e  d'Antin,  he  became  merely  a  spectator. 
His  forced  composure  gave  place  to  a  sort  of  morbid 
curiosity.  He  asked  himself  what  must  be  the  fate  of  a 
man  accused  in  such  fashion,  and  forgot  that  his  own 
life  hung  in  the  balance. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  giving  up  the  defence. 
Where  was  the  use  ?  His  brother,  who  alone  possessed 
the  knowledge  which  could  save  him,  was  hindered  from 
disclosing  it.  God  did  not  will  that  his  innocence  should 
be  made  known.  At  least  he  could  show  the  vulgar 
courage  of  dying  well. 

Meantime  a  lady  in  deep  mourning  appeared.  M. 
Renaut  recognized  her  and  offering  his  arm  led  her  to 
a  seat  near  the  prisoner.  She  raised  her  veil  and  showed 
the  face  of  Sabine.  It  was  deadly  pale,  and  sorrow  had 
written  dark  lines  about  the  eyes.  But  it  still  retained, 
in  spite  of  anguish,  the  imprint  of  her  own  pure  and 
gentle  nature.  She  could  not  speak  to  Xavier,  but  she 
gave  him  a  look  which  seemed  to  say, 

"  For  our  sake,  if  not  for  your  own,  defend  yourself, 
plead  your  innocence.    Remember  our  hondr  is  at  stake." 

The  sight  of  Sabine  revived  Xavier's  courage.  He 
drew  himself  together,  looked  firmly  and  bravely,  but 
without  bravado,  at  the  audience.  The  women  seemed 
touched  by  his  youth  and  his  comely  appearance,  and 
Sabiae  attracted  general  compassion. 


144 


IDOLS. 


The  witnesses  were  summoned.  Each  one  related 
what  little  they  knew  of  the  matter.  The  doctor  made 
his  purely  scientific  deposition,  and  Sabine  was  called. 
The  young  girl  advanced  trembling  to  the  bar,  and  spoke 
in  a  clear,  musical  voice  of  Xavier,  at  some  length,  before 
the  presiding  judge  had  the  heart  to  interrupt  her.  She 
spoke  of  their  happy  youth,  their  friendship,  oi  her 
father's  great  love  for  Xavier,  which  had  made  him 
weak.  She  touched  briefly  upon  the  dark  morning  when 
she  had  seen  her  father's  corpse,  and  learned  that  Xavier 
had   been  taken  away  from  home,  and  wound  up  by 

saying,  .      .      ,        't 

"  Would  Xavier  have  dared  to  look  me  in  the  face  it 
he  had  murdered  our  father  ?  The  affection  he  shows 
me,  and  his  caresses,  are  the  surest  proof  of  his  inno- 
cence." , 

The  Abb6  Sulpicc  was  the.i  called  for  form  s  sake;  the 
doctor  came  forward  declaring  him  quite  incapable  of 
appearing.     The  presiding  judge  then  bade  the  other 
judges  and  jury  remark  that  his  written  deposition  con- 
toined  all  that  he  would  have  said,  and  it  was  read.    The 
testimony  being  thus  ended,  it  behooved  the  attorney- 
general  to  speak.      Contrary  to  the  usual  custom  of 
solicitors-general,  he  did   not  commence  by    showing 
society  shaken  to  its  very  base,  and  tottering,  if  the  head 
of  the  accused  were  not  sacrificed  to  law  and  justicie. 
Disdaining  these  commonplaces,  he  took  Xavier  limb 
from  limb,  and  totally  ignoring  his  denial  of  the  charge, 
overpowered  him  with  proo'«i,  showed  him  his  punish- 
ment in  all  its  horrors,  and  e..   .d  by  saying: 

"  You  despised  honest  work  which  made  your  father 
rich  and  respected;  you  despised  the  virtue  which  made 
your  home  a  sanctuary.  You  allowed  evil  passions  to 
take  hold  of  you  in  the  very  flower  of  your  youth,  so 
that,  from  an  idler  and  spendthrift,  you  became  vicious. 


Each  one  related 
r.  The  doctor  made 
I  Sabine  was  called, 
to  the  bar,  and  spoke 
t  some  length,  before 

0  interrupt  her.  She 
r  friendship,  oi  her 
hich  had  made  him 
e  dark  morning  when 
d  learned  that  Xavier 
!,  and  wound  up  by 

3ok  me  in  the  face  if 
le  affection  he  shows 
St  proof  of  his  inno- 

d  for  form's  sake;  the 
im  quite  incapable  of 

then  bade  the  other 
ritten  deposition  con- 
and  it  was  read.  The 
;hooved  the  attorney- 

thc  usual  custom  ol 
mmence  by    showing 

1  tottering,  if  the  head 
d  to  law  and  justicfe. 

he  took  Xavier  limb 
s  denial  of  the  charge, 
lowed  him  his  punish- 
by  saying: 

liich  made  your  father 
the  virtue  which  made 
lowed  evil  passions  to 
wer  of  your  youth,  so 
ft,  you  became  vicious. 


THE  TRIAL. 


I4S 


and  ended  by  descending  to  the  level  of  burglars  and 
midnight  assassins.  There  is  no  pity  for  you  who  have 
despised  the  example  of  such  a  brother  as  yours.  Ask 
mercy  and  pardon  of  that  God,  who  would  have  par- 
doned even  Judas  had  Judas  repented,  but  from  men 
expect  only  justice,  implacable  justice,  which  throws  over 
you  in  anticipation  the  dark  pall  of  a  parricide." 

Sabine  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Leon  Renaut 
pressed  the  hand  of  the  accused,  murmuring, 

"  Keep  up  your  courage,  it  is  my  Lurn  now." 

The  young  lawyer's  powerful  eloquence  was  of  that 
kind  which,  without  resorting  to  oratorical  tricks,  pro- 
duced splendid  and  unforeseen  results.  His  talents  were 
well  known,  and  people  loved  to  hear  his  impassioned 
imagery,  which  took  auch  a  hold  upon  them.  His  past 
victories  on  the  judicial  battle-ground  were  cited,  for  he 
had  saved  criminals  and  gained  when  all  seemed  lost. 
But  on  this  occasion,  though  no  doubt  existed  in  the 
minds  of  the  audience  as  to  Renaut's  reputation  as  an 
orator,  no  one  had  any  hope  that  it  would  suffice  to  pro- 
cure Xavier's  acquittal.  Before  the  summing  up,  the 
audience  were  already  convinced  of  Xavier's  guilt,  but 
after  the  discourse  of  the  attorney-general,  scarcely  a 
single  partisan  for  the  accused  remained.  M.  Renaut 
fully  understood  this,  and  rising  impetuously  he  began: 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  bench  and  of  the  jury,  I  see  before 
me  judges,  where  I  looked  for  witnesses.  I  hear  a  pas- 
sionate, virulent  accusation,  and  I  demand  proofs.  You 
bring  before  me  a  deplorable  scene — the  blood  of  au  old 
man,  shed  at  midnight.  I  crave  only  day  and  open  air; 
you  intensify  the  darkness,  and  I  want  light." 

It  seemed  to  the  audience  as  if  a  portion  of  the  dark- 
ness were  already  being  dispelled.  The  lawyer's  very 
tones  were  so  convincing,  his  gestures  so  full  of  author- 
ity, his  face  bearing  a  look  of  such  sincere  conviction, 


liaWiiirtMfe- 


.^■dmmm 


wmm 


146 


IDOLS. 


that  many  of  those  present  forgot  how,  a  moment  before, 
their  opinion  of  Xavier  had  seemed  irrevocable. 

"  This  whole  case,  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "  is  en- 
shrouded in  mystery.     You  see  but  one  criminal,  I  see 
two.     You  repeat  that  the  deposition  of  the  Abb6  Sulpice 
should  suffice,  and  I  cry  out  that  it  does  not  satisfy  me. 
You  show  me  in  this  witness  a  priest,  and  I  demand  a 
man  who  holds  the  key  to  this  terrible  drama.     A  saint 
who  is  unquestionably  bound  to  silence  by  the  obliga- 
tions of  his  dread  ministry,  and  a  senseless  being  who 
in  the  order  of  creation  is  mute;  an  angel  and  a  beast; 
the  one  bound  by  his  oath  to  a  silence  like  that  of  the 
grave,  the  other  a  poor  brute,  condemned  to  everlasting 
silence.     Yet  Lipp-Lapp  who  was  severely  wounded  by 
the  murderer;  Lipp-Lapp  who  defended  himself,  and  in 
whose  clenched  fist  was  found  a  handful  of  the  murderer's 
hair;  Lipp-Lapp  saw  it  all.     You  point  to  the  accused 
and  you  say,  *  He  opened  hi?  father's  safe,  therefore  he 
must  have  killed  him.'     And  I  say  that  he  did  not  even 
rob  him.     Since  when  has  temptation  become  an  actual 
crime  ?    He  tells  you  that,  when  in  the  very  act  of  com- 
mitting a  crime,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  portrait  of  his 
dead  mother,  and  drew  back  in  shame  and  horror,  flying 
from  the  room.     No,  this  prodigal  did  not  kill  his  father; 
during  that  night  of  murder  and  of  mourning  he  was  shed- 
ing  tears  of  bitter  repentance,  and  at  the  very  turning- 
point  of  his  career,  at  his  very  entrance  upon  a  new  way, 
you  cast  him  into  a  felon's  cell  and  call  him — parricide. 
Ah,  gentlemen,  take  care;  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
had  the  honor  of  addressing  you;  it  is  not  the  first  strijg- 
gle  I  have  made  for  the  innocent,  against  the  law,  whose 
mission  it  is  to  protect  outraged  society,  but  which,  with- 
out ever  diverging  from  its  end,  sometimes  goes  astray 
in  the  means;  never,  never,  did  the  cause  of  a  prisoner 
seem  more  just  to  me  than  this  one;  never  have  I  so  much 


ijTiiiiMiiliii^^ 


THE  TRIAL. 


H7 


low,  a  moment  before, 
I  irrevocable, 
he  continued,  "  is  en- 
ut  one  criminal,  I  see 
)n  of  the  Abb6  Sulpice 
it  does  not  satisfy  me. 
riest,  and  I  demand  a 
rible  drama.  A  saint 
silence  by  the  obliga- 
L  senseless  being  who 
an  angel  and  a  beast; 
ilence  like  that  of  the 
demned  to  everlasting 

severely  wounded  by 
fended  himself,  and  in 
idful  of  the  murderer's 

point  to  the  accused 
ler's  safe,  therefore  he 
y  that  he  did  not  even 
tion  become  an  actual 
in  the  very  act  of  com- 
s  to  the  portrait  of  his 
ame  and  horror,  flying 

did  not  kill  his  father; 
mourning  he  was  shed- 
d  at  the  very  turning- 
ranee  upon  a  new  way, 
id  call  him — parricide. 
)t  the  first  time  I  have 
it  is  not  the  first  stri^- 
against  the  law,  whose 
ociety,  but  which,  with- 
sometimes  goes  astray 
he  cause  of  a  prisoner 
;;  never  have  I  so  much 


desired  to  convince  you  that  my  client  is  not  a  murderer, 
but  a  deeply  wronged  and  suffering  man.  My  God,  my 
God  !  do  You  no  longer  work  miracles,  or  will  You  not 
send  thither,  armed  wiih  full  power  to  reveal  the  truth, 
the  man  who  alone  can  do  so  ?  From  suffering,  aberra- 
tion of  mind,  from  the  very  jaws  of  death  itself,  it  would 
seem  to  me  that  the  Abbe  Sulpice  must  appear  before 
us." 

"  I  am  here,"  said  a  feeble  voice  beside  him. 

To  the  amazement  of  every  one  the  Ahh6  Sulpice  in- 
deed appeared  suddenly  in  the  doorway  leading  to  the 
witness-stand.  A  murmur  of  compassion  was  heard  in 
the  court. 

The  Abb6  Sulpice,  feeble  and  tottering,  wearing  his 
loose  black  cassock  unconfined  by  any  belt,  his  face  as 
pale  as  a  corpse,  seemed  like  one  summoned  from  the 
grave.  A  red  mark  divided  his  white  forehead  in  two, 
and  this  scar,  still  fresh  and  bleeding,  gave  him  a  strange 
resemblance  to  one  of  the  eariy  martyrs.  Sabine  arose 
and  made  a  step  towards  him.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  Xavier. 

Seeing  his  brother  thus  coming,  as  it  were,  from  the 
verge  of  the  grave  to  defend  him,  a  sudden  ray  of  hope 
entered  the  prisoner's  heart.  His  eyes,  dilated,  feverish^ 
red  and  burning,  were  fixed  upon  Sulpice  in  ardent  sup- 
plication, seeming  to  ask  of  him  at  once  his  honor,  his 
life,  here  and  in  eternity.  This  dramatic  entrance  con- 
cluded L6on  Renaut's  appeal.  The  greatest  emotion 
was  displayed  by  the  jury,  and  the  reporters  wrote  some 
rapid  lines  descriptive  of  the  effect  produced  by  this  in- 
cident. The  presiding  judge  declared  that  by  an  exer- 
cise of  his  discretionary  power,  he  would  hear  the  Abb6 
Sul  pice's  testimony.  The  hapless  prisoner,  clutching  at 
the  bar,  grew  paler  and  paler,  seeming  to  fairly  totter. 

And  how  all  this  had  come  about  was  as  follows:  For 


.Mnautm 


mmm 


mamtn 


atti''-*- 


148 


IDOLS. 


I 


more  than  a  month  the  young  priest  had  been  a  prey  to 
acute  physical  suffering.  His  mind  had  wandered  in 
delirium,  and  lost  sight  of  reality.  On  the  very  evening 
previous  to  the  trial,  the  doctor  had  declared  his  almost 
certain  conviction  that  he  would  never  recover  his  rea- 
But  that  morning  Sulpice  had  felt  the  darkness 


son. 


which  enshrouded  his  mind  gradually  being  dispelled, 
he  strove  to  remember  all  that  haa  happened.  Sitting 
up,  and  pressing  his  hands  to  his  forehead,  he  tried  to 
collect  his  thoughts.  An  incident  occurred  to  assist  him. 
Lipp-Lapp,  who,  since  the  illness  of  his  young  mastei, 
had  never  left  the  room;  poor  Lipp-Lapp,  who  still 
dragged  himself  about,  not  having  yet  recovered  his 
strength,  had  found  upon  the  chimney-piece  an  old  al- 
manac. Sitting  upon  a  low  stool,  he  was  going  over  the 
figures  with  his  long  hairy  fingers,  and  seemed  as  if  de- 
ploring that  he  could  not,  like  others,  comprehend  the 
sense  of  them.  Wearied  with  his  efforts,  he  arose,  and 
noiselessly  approached  the  bed,  just  when  Sulpice,  sitting 
up,  was  trying  to  recollect  events  and  to  recall  >.'■  -■  past. 
Lipp-Lapp,  holding  out  the  almanac  to  him,  at  .^d 
his  attention.     He  seized  the  card  covered  w?  i  !S, 

and  his  eye  fell  upon  one  to  which  the  animal  \¥uut  acci- 
dentally pointing.  Providence,  how  wonderful  are  Thy 
ways !  That  date  brought  back  the  abb6's  wandering 
thoughts. 

"The  eighteenth  of  August,"  said  he;  'the  eighteenth 
of  August." 

He  looked  round  in  a  sort  of  vague,  helpless  way,  then 
suddenly  light  broke  in  upon  him. 

"Xavier,"  exclaimed  he;  "Xavier!" 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  Baptiste  immediately  appeared. 

*' Baptiste,"  said  he,  " where  is  Sabine?" 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head,  but  made  no  replf. 

"She's  gone  there?"  said  Sulpice. 


THE  TRIAL. 


149 


,  had  been  a  prey  to 
1  had  wandered  in 
3n  the  very  evening 

declared  his  almost 
ver  recover  his  rea- 
d  felt  the  darkness 
illy  being  dispelled, 

happened.  Sitting 
orehead,  he  tried  to 
curred  to  assist  him. 
f  his  young  mastei, 
ipp-Lapp,  who  still 
r  yet  recovered  his 
iney-piece  an  old  al- 
;  was  going  over  the 
ind  seemed  as  if  de- 
;rs,  comprehend  the 
:fforts,  he  arose,  and 
when  Sulpice,  sitting 
id  to  recall  S.  -■  past, 
ac  to  him,  ti'  .-^d 
covered  wr  "i  ;s, 
the  animal  '..>«&»  acci- 
7  wonderful  are  Thy 
le  abb6's  wandering 

he;  "'the  eighteenth 

le,  helpless  way,  then 

!" 

mediately  appeared.  ^ 
t>ine?" 
made  no  replf. 


Baptiste  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"  Listen,"  said  Sulpice  in  a  feeble  voice,  "  I  am  going 
there  too.  Do  not  say  no,  for  I  will  go  even  if  it  is  my 
death." 

"  Go,  then,  dear  young  master,"  said  the  servant,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  "and  bring  us  back  M.  Xavier." 

Sulpice  took  a  few  drops  of  cordial,  and  feeling  strong- 
er, sent  for  a  carriage.  Baptiste  and  he  got  in  and  were 
driven  to  the  court-house.  The  young  priest  proceeded 
at  once  to  the  witness  box  and  appeared  as  we  have 
seen. 

The  deepest  emotion  was  visible  on  every  face. 

The  plot  seemed  thickening. 

Xavier  was  for  the  moment  forgotten.  All  eyes  were 
turned  upon  that  frail  face  with  its  bloody  aureola.  Pro- 
found silence  reigned  throughout  the  court.  Every  one 
felt  that  Xavier's  life  hung  upon  his  brother's  words. 

"  You  being  a  near  relative  of  the  accused,"  said  the 
judge,  "  I  will  not  oblige  you  to  take  oath,  being  con- 
vinced that  you  will  not  speak  one  word  contrary  to  the 
truth." 

"Sir,"  said  Sulpice,  "I  will  speak  the  truth." 

And  turning  to  his  brother  he  said, 

"  Forgive  me,  that  it  cannot  be  the  ivAaie  truth." 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  the  court  ?"  asked  the  judge. 

"  My  brother  is  innocent,"  said  the  young  priest,  rais- 
ing his  hands  to  an  image  of  the  Crucified  which  was 
directly  in  front  of  him. 

"  Can  you  prove  it  ?"  asked  the  judge. 

"  On  the  night  of  the  crime  two  men  came  to  our 
house  and  asked  to  see  me.  They  did  not  come  up 
to  my  room,  nor  had  they  any  need  of  me.  It  did  not 
take  them  long  to  accomplish  their  purpose;  the  money 
stolen,  the  victim  stricken,  they  were  stealing  out.  The 
door  of  my  father's  room  had  just  closed  after  them 


'^'■mmmii 


iiMMimiiiiMaiBiiBi 


ISO 


IDOLS. 


when  I  came  in  from  a  long  drive.  I  suspected  some- 
thing at  first.  But  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  secure 
my  silence.  It  was  easy  to  deceive  me,  as  they  knew  my 
mission  was  entirely  among  the  poor  and  suffering.  One 
of  them  told  me  that  my  ministry  was  required  for  a 
man  whose  soul  was  at  stake,  and  I  went  with  them." 

"  Could  you  tell  us  where  you  were  brought  ?"  asked 
the  judge. 

"  I  could  not,"  said  the  priest,  "  and  even  if  I  did  re- 
member I  would  have  no  right  to  make  it  known.  When 
we  arrived  at  a  wretched  house  we  went  in,  and  im- 
mediately one  of  these  villains  knelt  down  and  under 
the  seal  of  confession  told  me  of  the  crime  he  had  com- 
mitted." 

"  Did  you  see  that  man's  face  ?" 

"I  did." 

"  Would  you  know  him  again  ?" 

"  I  knew  him  before." 

"  Under  what  circumstances  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"  I  once  saved  his  life,"  replied  the  priest,  quietly. 

"  His  name  ?"  asked  the  judge,  "  or  do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"  In  that  case  one  word  will  be  sufficient  to  save  your 
brother." 

Sulpice  clutched  at  the  railing. 

"  That  name  I  cannot  reveal  to  the  court.  He,  whose 
image  you  have  placed  upon  yonder  wall,  forbids  me. 
You  must  believe  me  upon  the  honor  of  a  priest  and  the 
word  of  a  Christian,  but  you  must  not  ask  for  proofs;  I 
cannot  furnish  them." 

Judge  and  jury  alike  looked  at  him. 

Xavier  who,  in  the  agitation  of  new  hope,  had  risen 
from  his  seat,  fell  backwards  overwhelmed.  Sabine 
sobbed  aloud. 

Public  sympathy  had  reached  a  climax.     Some  ad* 


e.  I  suspected  some- 
,ry  for  them  to  secure 
;  me,  as  they  knew  my 
3or  and  suffering.  One 
ry  was  required  for  a 
I  went  with  them." 
were  brought  ?"  asked 

*  and  even  if  I  did  re- 
make it  known.  When 
we  went  in,  and  im- 
nelt  down  and  under 
the  crime  he  had  com- 


THE  TRIAL. 


«s« 


I  you  know  him  ?" 
the  priest,  quietly. 
"  or  do  you  know  it  ?" 

sufficient  to  save  your 


the  court.  He,  whose 
inder  wall,  forbids  me. 
)nor  of  a  priest  and  the 
>t  not  ask  for  proofs;  I 

him. 

}f  new  hope,  had  risen 

overwhelmed.     Sabine 

1  a  climax.     Some  ad* 


mired  the  Abb6  Sulpice,  others  were  amazed  at  his 
silence,  not  comprehending  the  inviolable  secret  which 
bound  him. 

To  Sulpice  the  judge  said  gravely,  "  The  gentlemen  of 
the  jury  will  no  doubt  take  what  you  have  ^aid  into  ac- 
count. It  does  not  come  within  our  province  to  urge 
you  to  betray  alike  your  conscience  and  your  God.  Your 
duty  is  rigorous,  but  ours  remains  inexorable." 

The  attorney-general,  fully  understanding  that  the 
appearance  of  Sulpice,  and  the  simple  words  by  him 
spoken,  had  done  more  for  the  defence  than  the  elo- 
quence of  L6on  Renaut,  and  unwilling  that  he  should 
lose  at  any  cost  the  cruel  victory  he  had  been  on  the 
point  of  gaining,  arose  to  reply  to  the  young  lawyer,  an- 
nihilating his  fervent  defence  and  endeavoring  to  efface 
the  impression  produced  by  the  priest's  testimony.  He 
no  longer  cared  to  display  his  talents  and  fine  language, 
but  his  cutting  voice,  his  brief,  incisive  words,  his  un- 
answerable arguments,  followed  each  other  in  quick  suc- 
cession like  poisoned  darts.  He  spoke  of  the  Abb6  Sul- 
pice in  terms  of  the  highest  praise,  but  briefly  touched 
upon  the  illness  from  which  he  was  'scarce  recovering. 
He  declared  that  the  confession  of  two  mysterious  men 
in  an  unknown  house  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  fever- 
ish visions  of  his  delirium,  and  concluded  by  a  scathing 
condemnation  of  the  parricide.  Sulpice  was  near  Sabine, 
but  unlike  her,  he  heard,  upon  his  knees,  the  terrible 
words  of  the  attorney -general,  realizing  that  he  was 
henceforth  powerless  to  save  his  brother.  L6on  Renaut 
again  rose,  but  every  one  felt  that  his  confidence  in  him- 
self was  weakened.  He  knew,  in  fact,  that  if  Sulpice's 
deposition  did  not  save  Xavier  it  would  injure  him, 
seeming  like  the  stratagem  of  a  brother  to  deceive  the 
jury  and  gain  the  sympathy  of  the  house,  by  a  plan  pre- 
concerted, perhaps,  with  the  lawyer  himself. 


-.am 


d*- 


152 


IDOLS. 


The  jury  retired,  and  Xavier  was  removed  by  the  gen- 
darmes. Meanwhile  the  spectators  were  divided  into 
two  parties:  the  one  believed  what  the  Abb6  Pomereul 
had  said  and  demanded  Xavier's  acquittal;  the  other 
shook  their  heads  saying, 

"  You  see  it  is  merely  a  lawyer's  strategy.  Would  con- 
fession be  of  any  importonce  in  such  a  case  ?  Of  course 
he  would  save  his  brother  and  let  religion  go," 

Every  one  was  busy  discussing  the  attorney-general's 
speech  and  the  eloquence  of  the  young  lawyer.  Friends 
sought  each  other  out,  for  must  they  not  in  some  way 
pass  the  time  while  the  jury  was  deliberating?  It  seemed 
to  augur  well  for  the  accused  that  they  were  so  un- 
decided. After  an  absence  of  an  hour  and  a  half  they 
returned.  Then  in  a  tremulous  voice,  amid  a  death- 
like silence,  the  foreman  read  the  decision  of  his  col- 
leagues: 

"Xavier  Pomereul  was  guilty,  but  beyond  all  doubt 
the  priest's  testimony  must  be  taken  into  account,  and 
a  plea  for  extenuating  circumstances  be  admitted." 

It  was  the  only  means  of  saving  Xavier  from  the  pen- 
alty of  death,  the  only  means  of  giving  Providence  time 
to  work  out  its  end.  A  murmur  of  astonishment  greet- 
ed the  foreman's  fatal  decision,  and  when  Xavier  was 
brought  in  he  might  have  gruessed  his  fate  at  once  from 
the  appearance  of  every  one.  But  he  saw  nothing,  his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  judges  while  he  awaited  the 
reading  of  his  sentence.  When  he  heard  the  words,  "  has 
been  found  guilty,"  he  burst  into  tears,  and  when  sen- 
tence was  pronounced,  "hard  labor  for  life,"  he  mur- 
mured, 

"  Far  better  death." 

"  No,  Xavier,  no,  my  brother,"  cried  Sulpice,  trying  to 
take  his  brother's  hand,  "  for  God  will  permit  light  to 
come  upon  the  darkness,  and  you  will  yet  be  free  " 


jyfiiiiwiiiaii 


i  removed  by  the  gen- 

rs  were   divided   into 

t  the  Abb6  Pomereul 

acquittal;  the  other 

strategy.  Would  con- 
:h  a  case  ?  Of  course 
'eligion  go," 
the  attorney-general's 
lung  lawyer.  Friends 
they  not  in  some  way 
liberating  ?  It  seemed 
hat  they  were  so  un- 
hour  and  a  half  they 
voice,  amid  a  death- 
e  decision  of  his  col- 

>ut  beyond  all  doubt 
ken  into  account,  and 
ces  be  admitted." 
Xavier  from  the  pen- 
ving  Providence  time 
f  astonishment  greet- 
,nd  when  Xavier  was 

his  fate  at  once  from 
t  he  saw  nothing,  his 
while  he  awaited  the 
heard  the  words,  "  has 

tears,  and  when  sen- 
or  for  life,"  he  mur- 


ried  Sulpice,  trying  to 
1  will  permit  light  to 
vill  yet  be  free  " 


THE  TRIAU 


IS3 


But  with  a  gesture  of  abhorrence  Xavier  threw  him 
off,  crying, 

"  You,  who  might  have  saved  mc  and  would  not,  I  dis- 
own you." 

The  judge  then  asked,  "  Have  you   anything  to  say 
why  sentence  should  not  be  passed  upon  you  ?" 

Xavier  answered,  "  I  am  innocent !  I  am  innocent !" 

Sabine  fell  into  Sulpice's  arms,  as  Xavier  was  being 
led  away. 

A.h,         r  martyr !"  she  said   "  who  will  console  you 
.1.  .  ach  at       deal  ?" 

Sulpice  pointed  to  the  picture  of  the  crucified  God. 

"  He  will,"  said  he. 

And,  assisted  by  L6on  Renaut,  he  returned  home  with 
his  sister  in  the  carriage  which  had  brought  him. 


wima 


»54 


IDOLS. 


i  to 


CHAPTER  XI. 
The  Dream  Ended, 

The  studio  occupied  by  Benedict  Fougerais  was  on 
the  ground  floor  of  the  house,  No.  ii  Boulevard  de  Clichy, 
which  had  been  honored  by  numbering  among  its  ten- 
ants at  one  time  Jacque,  the  painter  of  fishes,  and  Diaz, 
the  brilliant  colorist.  His  studio  was  spacious,  and  fur- 
nished in  se\  aly  classical  style,  to  harmonize  with  the 
character  of  him  who  passed  his  life  there.  The  draper- 
ies were  dark  red,  showing  to  the  best  advantage  the 
whiteness  of  the  marble,  the  sombre  tint  of  the  bronzes, 
and  the  softened  lustre  of  the  burnished  silver. 

On  a  carved  oaken  buffet  stood  vases  in  bold  relief,  a 
lava  plaque,  painted  by  Joseph  Devers,  in  imitation  of 
one  of  those  marvels  of  Lucca  della  Robbia,  whose  tra- 
ditions it  faithfully  followed.  Two  highly-colored  pic- 
tures, the  tints  of  which  were  mellowed  by  time,  hung 
upon  the  panels  at  either  side.  On  pedestals  covered 
with  velvet  draperies  were  the  works  of  the  artist,  well 
placed,  each  in  its  peculiar  light,  and  disjjlayed  to  the 
utmost  advantage.  Vainly  did  one  seek  in  this  sanctu- 
ary of  art  the  much-lauded  conceptions  of  Pradier, 
Clodion's  nymphs,  or  any  of  the  works  of  that  school, 
which,  for  want  of  an  i  ial,  becomes  realistic,  and  the 
decay  of  which  is  disguised  by  a  word  unknown  to  the 
ancients. 

To  be  realistic  is  to  make  no  use  of  what  we  find  in 
the  works  of  God,  and  which  His  Providence  has  given 
us,  that  we  may  add  thereunto  the  inspiration  of  genius; 
it  is  to  choose  the  low  in  preference  to  the  beautiful — to 
give  interpretation  to  what  is  base  and  expression  to 


mmmmm 


mmmm 


I. 


DED. 


ict  Fougerais  was  on 
[  Boulevard  de  Clichy, 
leringf  among  its  ten- 
er  of  fishes,  and  Diaz, 
vas  spacious,  and  fur- 
)  harmonize  with  the 
e  there.  The  draper- 
e  best  advantage  the 
-e  tint  of  the  bronzes, 
lished  silver, 
vases  in  bold  relief,  a 
evers,  in  imitation  of 
la  Robbia,  whose  tra- 
o  highly-colored  pic- 
Uowed  by  time,  hung 
3n  pedestals  covered 
rks  of  the  artist,  well 
and  disjjlayed  to  the 
le  seek  in  this  sanctu- 
iceptions  of  Pradier, 
works  of  that  school, 
mes  realistic,  and  the 
word  unknown  to  the 

se  of  what  we  find  in 
Providence  has  gfiven 
inspiration  of  genius; 
e  to  the  beautiful — to 
ise  and  expression  to 


TIIK   DREAM   KNDED. 


155 


what  is  vile;  for  vile  is  the  only  word  to  express  such 
degeneracy. 

To  belong  to  the  realistic  school  means  to  produce 
no  more  such  faces  and  figures  as  were  sculptured  by 
Michael  Angelo  upon  mausoleums,  or  admitted  by  the 
popes  into  the  great  basilica,  St.  Peter's,  The  "  Night 
and  Day"  of  that  master  would  not  represent,  according 
to  the  idea  of  the  realists,  the  human  form  in  its  whole 
strength,  draped  merely  in  its  own  chastity.  The  art- 
ists of  our  day  have  brought  into  art  a  certain  profligacy 
of  conception — the  licentiousness  of  the  times.  They 
work  no  longer  for  temples,  but  for  drawing-rooms. 
Their  work  is  trivial,  commonplace,  and  unwholesome. 
But  such  art  pays.  It  gives  the  artist  at  once  money 
and  a  certain  ready  fame.  None  of  these  groups,  heads, 
or  basso-relie/i  will  live;  but  the  artist  of  to-day  does 
not  look  beyond  the  present.  He  is  indifferent  to  im- 
mortality, as  he  is  skeptical  ot  a  future  life.  His  faith 
in  art  is  as  dead  as  his  religious  belief.  For  him  there 
is  no  God  in  heaven,  and  on  his  path  of  life  no  sublime 
poetry.  There  are  some  noble  exceptions  among  the 
modern  artists,  who  stand  out  from  the  groups  of  realists, 
either  through.',  pure  love  of  th^  antique,  or  through  a 
higher  and  WQflhier  motive. 

When  Benedict  Fougerais  left  off  making  designs  for 
clocks  and  ornaments  for  M.  Pomereul,  he  entered  the 
studio  of  a  member  of  the  Institute,  whose  reputation 
was  perhaps  not  yet  equal  to  his  solid  merit.  Jules  Au- 
tran  was  a  master  at  once  kind  and  severe,  and  it  was 
thanks  to  him  that  Benedict  succeeded  in  finishing  his 
artistic  education. 

He  studied  history,  of  which  so  many  artists  remain 
in*  ignorance;  he  devoted  himself  to  archaeology  and 
numismatics,  and  all  the  branches  of  sculpture  and  archi- 
tecture as  practised  by  the  ancients,  whose  works  inspire 


>aa«B!«wsti«»s». 


mmmm»"- 


156 


IDOLS. 


in  us  at  once  admiration  for  their  genius  and  a  feeling 
of  our  own  impotence.  He  studied  the  lives  of  those 
great  artists  of  the  middle  ages  and  the  period  of  the 
Renaissance,  and  drew  thence  this  conclusion,  that  be- 
fore  becoming  artists  whose  fame  was  to  astonish  the 
world,  they  had  been  men. 

Without  aspiring  to  equal  such  a  master  as  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci,  who  reached  a  high  degree  of  excel- 
lence in  various  arts,  and  could  fortify  a  city  with  the 
same  skill  with  which  he  produced  a  picture  like  the 
Holy  Family  of  Francis  I.;  without  ever  hoping  to  at- 
tain such  an  eminence  as  the  sculptor,  Benvenuto  Cel- 
'ini,  who  carved  a  gem  with  the  same  hand  that  painted 
the  Perseus,  Benedict  labored  to  acquire  various  kinds 
of  knowledge,  convinced  that  all  arts  and  sciences  tend 
to  complete  esich  other. 

He  never  frittered  away  his  time  in  idleness,  as  do 
so  many  artists,  under  pretence  of  seeking  an  inspiration, 
while  they  enervate  themselves  by  the  use  of  tobacco  in 
every  shape  and  form.  He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
form  exaggerated  theories  of  art,  and  become,  in  conse- 
quence, the  lion  of  a  circle  of  petty  admirers.  He  re- 
mained in  his  studio,  and  when  he  felt  that  his  hand 
was  not  faithfully  interpreting  his  thought,  he  did  not 
try  to  force  it,  but  turned  to  some  useful  and  yet  relax- 
ing study.  His  friends  were  all  of  the  best  type.  He 
did  not  care  for  conversation  of  such  a  kind  as  to  dis- 
turb the  harmony  existing  between  his  conceptions  and 
his  execution. 

For,  if  gayety  is  a  relaxation  to  the  mind,  licen- 
tiousness only  troubles  and  disturbs  it.  So  Benedict's 
friends  belonged  to  the  unhappily  small  class  of  literary 
men — journalists  and  artists — who  resolutely  set  thetn- 
selves  against  the  too  general  immorality  of  the  day. 
Closely  united,  they  formed  a  brave  litUe  band,  who  de^ 


WHWIiiilMiliW^^ 


Wk 


THE  DlitAM   ENDED. 


157 


genius  and  a  feeling 

:d  the  lives  of  those 

id  the  period  of  the 

conclusion,  that  be- 

was  to  astonish  the 


h  a  master  as  Leo- 
igh  degree  of  excel- 
artify  a  city  with  the  f 
:d  a  picture  like  the 
it  ever  hoping  to  at- 
ptor,  Benvenuto  Cel- 
me  hand  that  painted 
icquire  various  kinds 
rts  and  sciences  tend 

le  in  idleness,  as  do 
eeking  an  inspiration, 
the  use  of  tobacco  in 
;  think  it  necessary  to 
and  become,  in  conse- 
:ty  admirers.  He  re- 
le  felt  that  his  band 
>  thought,  he  did  not 
useful  and  yet  relax- 
i  the  best  type.  He 
iich  a  kind  as  to  dis- 
I  his  conceptions  and 

to  the  mind,  licen- 
bs  it.  So  Benedict's 
small  class  of  literary 
I  resolutely  set  theJtn- 
imorality  of  the  day. 
ire  litUe  band,  who  de> 


pended  upon  each  other  for  support  and  protection.  Why 
does  this  sort  of  good-fellowship  so  seldom  exist,  except 
among  those  who  are  rather  the  brigands,  the  bravi,  of 
art  than  its  apostles  ?  The  followers  of  that  camp  op- 
posed to  such  as  Benedict  are,  in  their  individuality, 
protected,  upheld,  and  sustained  in  a  manner  quite  dif> 
ferent  from  their  adversaries. 

The  painter,  poet,  sculptor,  or  author,  who  is  earnest, 
moral,  and  Christian,  finds  himself  alone  and  isolated. 
Far  from  seeking  each  other  out,  assisting  each  other, 
and  fraternizing,  such  men  seem  to  lack  either  that  fra- 
ternal feeling  or  the  necessary  attraction.  They  do  not 
seem  to  realize  that,  if  they  wished,  they  could  form 
themselves  into  a  serried  column  as  well  as  their  antag- 
onists. 

Two  powerful  incentives  kept  Benedict  firm  in  the 
way  he  had  chosen:  one  was  his  faith,  upon  which  the 
cold  wind  of  doubt  had  never  blown;  the  other  was  his 
attachment  to  Sabine.  His  gratitude  to  her  father  was 
somehow  mingled  and,  as  it  were,  diffused  in  the  deep, 
pure  affection  with  which  he  regarded  Sabine.  He  en- 
tertained for  her  much  the  same  species  of  respect  and 
admiration  which  Dante  felt  for  Beatrice,  and  Petrarch  for 
Laura,  and  which  gave  to  poetry  "  La  Divina  Commed- 
dia"  and  the  "  Canziones."  Without  directly  confessing 
that  she  was  the  end  and  aim  of  his  efforts,  the  young 
sculptor  had  never  dreamed  of  offering  the  fame  or 
fortune  he  might  achieve  to  any  other  than  the  mer- 
chant's daughter. 

He  told  himself  repeatedly  that  the  rich  heiress 
would  no  doubt  despise  the  poor  youth  who  owed  his 
very  livelihood  to  the  charity  of  her  father;  but  he  con- 
soled himself  by  the  thought  that  M.  Pomereul  had 
himself  known  poverty,  struggled  with  privation,  and 
considered  it  his  bounden  duty  to  protect  those  who 


1 


IJi 


IDOLS. 


fought  the  battle  of  life  bravely,  without  weakness  or 
presumption. 

On  the  day  when  he  brought  the  statuette  of  Stein- 
bach's  Sabine  to  his  master's  house,  Benedict  felt  that  his 
fate  was  to  be  then  and  there  decided.  If  the  young  girl, 
with  her  father's  consent,  accepted  this  long-cherished 
work  of  his,  she  would  likewise  consent  to  become  his 
wife.  Ah!  how  he  had  trembled  for  the  result,  and 
how  great  had  been  his  joy  when  M.  Pomereul  held  out 
a  hand  of  welcome  to  him,  and  called  him  son. 

Thenceforth  he  had  believed  his  fate  certain— his  hap- 
piness secured.  With  Sabine  for  his  wife  he  could  never 
go  astray,  he  could  never  fail.  The  thought  of  her  had 
sustained  him  during  the  five  laborious  years  of  his 
early  youth,  and  strengthened  him  in  his  manhood's 
riper  age.  Shf:  had  been  his  hope  and  his  conscience, 
and  she  was  to  be  his  model  and  his  aim  in  iife.  If  ever 
a  man  was  happy  it  was  Benedict  on  the  night  of  h!s 
betrothal.  His  happiness  seemed  so  pure,  so  complete, 
so  certain  !  Only  a  few  days  must  elapse  till  the  girl, 
who  raised  her  eyes  so  frankly  to  his  face,  would  be  his 
wife.  He  saw  her,  in  anticipation,  in  the  studio  on  the 
Boulevard  de  Clichy,  seated  beside  him  while  he  worked, 
praising  or  criticising  by  turns.  He  imagined  them  at 
evening  forming  part  once  more  of  the  family  circle, 
where  Sulpice's  gentle  austerity  never  interfered  with  the 
general  gayety. 

What  courage  and  what  strength  the  title  of  hus- 
band would  give  Benedict !  He  would  no  longer  have 
to  think  and  act  for  himself  alone.  He  would  be  re- 
sponsible for  the  happiness  of  that  dear  one  whose  des- 
tiny M.  Pomereul  had  confided  to  him  with  so  noble  a 
confidence,  accepting  industry  and  affection  from  him  as 
his  only  wealth. 

Yes,  Benedict  was  happy  that  night.    And  when  he 


, 


■iiMi 


vithout  weakness  or 

e  statuette  of  Stein- 
Benedict  felt  that  his 
1.     If  the  young  girl, 

this  long-cherished 
nsent  to  become  his 

for  the   result,  and 
1.  Pomereul  held  out 
ed  him  son. 
ate  certain — his  hap- 
,  wife  he  could  never 

thought  of  her  had 
jorious  years  of  his 
m  in  his  manhood's 

and  his  conscience, 
s  aim  in  life.  If  ever 
on  the  night  of  h!s 
so  pure,  so  complete, 

elapse  till  the  girl, 
is  face,  would  be  his 
in  the  studio  on  the 
liim  while  he  worked, 
le  imagined  them  at 
of  the  family  circle, 
er  interfered  with  the 

th  the  title  of  hus- 
ould  no  longer  have 
e.  He  would  be  re- 
dear  one  whose  des- 
him  with  so  noble  a 
affection  from  him  as 

light.    And  when  he 


THE   DREAM    ENDED. 


159 


slept  his  dreams  brought  before  him  atfuin  loved  faces, 
and  the  echo  of  their  gladsome  words. 

A  thunderbolt  fell  upon  Iiis  hopes  and  his  happiness. 
M.  Pomcreul's  murder,  in  itself,  was  to  him  a  source  of 
tile  deepest  grief.  Me  had  never  known  his  own  father, 
and  Ills  filial  affection  had  centred  upon  this  man  who 
had  l)ecn  his  benefactor.  Hastening  to  the  house  of 
mourning,  he  had  been  given  the  farther  intelligence 
J,  I  which  made  his  sorrow  two-fold.  Not  only  had  the  hon- 
ored head  of  the  family  fallen  by  the  hand  of  an  assas- 
sin, but  an  accusation  was  made  against  the  brotlier  of 
the  woman  who  was  so  soon  to  b  '  his  wife. 

Benedict  was  well  aware  of  Aavier's  follies,  but  he 
never  believed  the  accusation  even  for  an  instant.  He 
trusted  the  wretched  boy  blindly,  ovc,  wheln^ed  as  he 
was  by  circumstances,  and  caughi  in  the  leshes  c-  a 
net  from  which  naught,  as  it  seemed,  could  deliver  '  -n. 
He  not  only  interested  in  his  be^ialf  his  best  friend, 'v^on 
Renaut,  but  he  showed  the  prisoner  a  fhousanci  little 
kindnesses  and  marks  of  affection  which  c  liy  he  wretch- 
ed can  fully  appreciate.  He  was  very  lit.  'e  ir.  sympathy 
with  the  worthless  life  Xavier  had  been  leading,  and 
even  felt  a  sort  of  dislike  towards  the  frequenters  of  low 
theatres  and  other  fashionable  haunts  of  vice,  and  would 
never  have  dreamed  of  making  him  a  companion.  But 
since  the  blow  had  fallen,  and  poor  Xavit-  was  branded 
as  a  parricide,  he  felt  only  the  deepest  sorrow  for  him, 
beholding  in  him  the  hapless  victim  of  circumstances, 
and  a  deeply  afflicted  son. 

This  was  a  greater  test  of  his  affection  than  ten  years 
of  ordinary  devotion.  Benedict  felt  that  he  owed  Sabine 
this  proof  of  his  love  for  he-  ?md  that  by  devoting  him- 
self to  Xavier's  cause,  he  ^i  >;d  show  in  a  way  more 
convincing  than  words  th6  depth  and  sincerity  of  his 
attachment.    Imagine,  therefore,  his  gnef  and  dis&ppoint- 


r! 


MKMMXRMMMlHnMM 


i6o 


IDOLS. 


ment  when  Sabine  refused  to  see  him  during  the  whole 
time  of  Xavier's  trial.  Of  course,  her  mourning  and  her 
intense  anxiety  were  sufficient  reasons  for  her  seclusion, 
and  yet  Benedict  had  won  from  Sabine  herself,  from  M. 
Pomereul,  and  now  from  Sulpice,  a  sacred  title,  which 
should,  he  thought,  have  procured  him  access  to  her. 

Was  it  just  that  he  should  be  treated  as  a  stranger  in 
that  house  which  was  now  in  great  part  hers?  He 
accused  her  in  his  heart  of  coldness  and  indifiference. 
He  persuaded  himself  that  she  could  not  have  the  same 
deep  love  for  him  he  had  for  her;  not  discouraged,  how- 
ever, he  determined  to  triumph  over  her  indifference  by 
increased  devotion. 

So,  unable  to  see  Sabine,  he  devoted  himself  entirely 
to  Xavier.  He  saw  him  every  day,  bringing  new  courage 
to  that  dejected  soul,  and  if  he  did  not  succeed  in  soft- 
ening Xavier's  hard,  rebellious  nature,  he  at  least  kept 
alive  his  faith  in  friendship.  The  sculptor's  visits,  and 
those  of  Renaut  and  Sabine,  were  the  prisoner's  only 
consolation.  He  rarely  spoke  of  Sulpice,  and  when  he 
did  so  it  was  almost  with  hatred. 

Incapable  of  understanding  his  brother,  he  accused 
him  of  cruelty. 

During  the  terrible  scene  at  the  court,  the  sculptor  had 
not  dared  to  approach  Sabine,  who  sat  as  near  as  pos- 
sible to  Xavier,  but  when  Xavier,  having  heard  his 
sentence,  gave  that  one  last  despairing  cry,  "I  am  inno- 
cent!" it  was  Benedict  who  held  him  in  his  arms  and 
supported  him,  for  the  gendarmes,  touched  by  the  scene, 
allowed  Xavier  that  moment's  consolation. 

Next  evening  Benedict  went  to  see  Leon  Renaut 

"Do  you  think  Xavier  will  appeal  to  another  court?" 
he  asked. 

*•  No,"  said  the  lawyer,  "he  has  positively  refused." 

"  And  yet  another  court  might—"  began  Benedict. 


im  during  the  whole 
er  mourning  and  her 
ins  for  her  seclusion, 
ine  herself,  from  M. 
I  sacred  title,  which 
liQi  access  to  her. 
ited  as  a  stranger  in 
eat  part  hers?  He 
:ss  and  indifference, 
d  not  have  the  same 
3t  discouraged,  how- 
r  her  indifference  by 

>ted  himself  entirely 
ringing  new  courage 

not  succeed  in  soft- 
ure,  he  at  least  kept 
sculptor's  visits,  and 

the  prisoner's  only 
tulpice,  and  when  he 

brother,  he  accused 

)urt,  the  sculptor  had 

)  sat  as  near  as  pos- 

r,  having  heard  his 

ing  cry,  "  I  am  inno- 

lim  in  his  arms  and 

ouched  by  the  scene, 

tlation. 

!e  Leon  Renaut 

il  to  another  court  ?" 

ositively  refused." 
began  Benedict. 


THE  DREAM  ENDED. 


l6l 


"  There  is  no  use  in  hoping  against  hope,  my  friend," 
said  the  lawyer;  "  Xavier  would  have  no  chance  before 
any  jury." 

"  So  the  unhappy  boy  must  go  to  the  convict-prison 
till  he  is  transported  ?" 

"He  is  in  such  a  state  of  health,"  replied  Renaut, 
"  that  it  will  be  possible,  I  think,  to  have  him  kept  where 
he  is  at  present.  We  will  meanwhile  work  to  obtain 
some  further  concession.  Public  opinion  is  divided  in 
his  regard,  some  believing  him  to  be  the  victim  of  a 
judicial  error.  He  has  been  sentenced,  it  is  true,  but  the 
sentence  may  not  be  enforced." 

"  In  the  mean  time,  L6on,"  said  Benedict,  "  I  shall  try 
to  see  Mile.  Sabine." 

"  Courage,"  said  L6on  gently  and  half  sadly. 

"  Why,  do  you  fear  that  she  will  refuse  ?"  cried  Bene- 
dict. 

"She  is  an  angel,"  said  the  lawyer,  "and  will,  I  fear, 
refuse  to  join  your  life  to  hers,  or  make  you  share  hcpr 
burden  of  sorrow." 

"Ah!"  said  Benedict,  "could  she  be  so  cruel T 

"But  she  will  suffer  as  much  as  you  in  that  case,"  said 
L6on. 

"  Your  anxiety  agrees  but  too  well  with  my  own  mis- 
givings," said  Benedict;  "but  I  must  learn  my  fate  at 
once.  Good  by,  L6on;  I  will  be  here  to-night,  if  the 
blow  which  has  stricken  Xavier  has  not  also  killed  my 
hopes." 

The  sculptor  went  out  and  proceeded  to  the  Pomereul 
homestead. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

The  passers-by  on  the  Chauss6e  d'Antin  saw  no  lights 
in  any  of  the  windows;  that  rich  and  elegant  home  seemed 
like  a  deserted  house.  Benedict  asked  if  Mile.  Pomereul 
was  at  home,  and  being  answered  in  the  affirmative, 


l62 


IDOLS. 


went  up  the  first  stairs.  He  was  met  by  Baptiste;  he 
asked  him  to  let  his  young  mistress  know  that  he  was 
there,  and  inquire  if  she  would  receive  him;  the  old  ser- 
vant shook  his  head. 

"I  fear  not,  sir,"  said  he;  "Mile.  Sabine's  way  of  act- 
ing frightens  me.  She  neither  speaks  nor  cries.  She 
tries  to  keep  up  her  strength,  and  meantime  she  seems 
frozen,  going  about  the  house  like  a  spirit." 

"  I  must  see  her,  Baptiste,  do  you  understand  ?"  said 
Benedict,  firmly. 

The  old  man  bowed,  opened  the  drawing-room  door 
for  Benedict,  and  went  to  Sabine's  apartments.  He 
found  her  seated  in  a  large  arm-chair  reading  that  book 
which  is  only  less  sublime  than  the  Bible;  she  was  seek- 
ing in  the  Imitation  courage  to  bear  her  heavy  cross. 
Dressed  in  black,  her  hair  arranged  with  perfect  neatness, 
but  with  no  attempt  at  ornament,  white  as  marble,  and 
sad  as  the  Pieta,  Sabine  seemed  a  living  image  of  grief. 
When  Benedict's  name  was  mentioned,  she  put  out  her 
hand  with  a  gesture  as  if  imploring  that  he  should  be 
kept  away,  but  with  sudden  resolution  she  rose  quickly, 
murmuring,  "  It  is  better,  much  better." 

To  Baptiste  she  said  aloud, 
^  "I  will  see  M.  Fougerais  presently  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

The  servant  disappeared.  Left  alone,  Sabine  went 
slowly  over  to  the  prie-dieu  and  knelt  down. 

"Thou  who  hast  suffered  in  thine  agony  alone,"  she 
prayed,  "give  me  strength  to  refuse  the  aid  which  is 
offered  me.  Like  Simon  of  Cyrene  he  would  share  my 
cross.  Grant,  O  Lord,  that  I  may  not  accept  this  broth- 
erly help!  Thou,  who  readest  all  hearts,  knowest  that  in 
mine  is  no  secret  for  which  I  should  blush.  My  feeling 
for  him,  increased  by  gratitude  and  respect,  is  so  deep 
and  lasting  that  it  can  never  be  effaced.     I  must  feign 


eiiiiwiiiiii 


W^2U'- 


THE   DREAM  ENDED. 


163 


IS  met  by  Baptiste;  he 
ress  know  that  he  was 
:ceive  him;  the  old  ser- 

;e.  Sabine's  way  of  act- 
speaks  nor  cries.     She 
i  meantime  she  seems 
;  a  spirit." 
you  understand  ?"  said 

he  drawing-room  door 
ine's  apartments.  He 
hair  reading  that  book 
le  Bible;  she  was  seek- 
bear  her  heavy  cross, 
d  with  perfect  neatness, 
,  white  as  marble,  and 
I  living  image  of  grief, 
ioned,  she  put  out  her 
ing  that  he  should  be 
ution  she  rose  quickly, 
etter." 


sently  in  the  drawing-     > 

ift  alone,  Sabine  went 
lelt  down. 

hine  agony  alone,"  she 
efuse  the  aid  which  is 
:ne  he  would  share  my 
y  not  accept  this  broth- 
hearts,  knowest  that  in 
uld  blush.  My  feeling 
ind  respect,  is  so  deep 
effaced.    I  must  feign 


indifference  to  save  him  who  claims  the  right  to  share 
my  misery  and  disgrace,  and  I  fear  to  betray  myself. 
My  God!  I  am  but  a  woman  sorely  tried;  do  Thou  prove 
me  worthy  of  the  title  of  Christian,  and  lead  me  if  it 
must  be  to  suffer  all  things." 

Burning  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  She  wiped 
them  hurriedly  away,  rose,  and  with  a  firm  step  went 
down  to  the  drawing-room.  Benedict  was  standing  near 
the  organ  upon  which  Sabine  had  played  that  even- 
ing of  their  betrothal.  He  was  recalling  that  tender 
and  touching  scene  with  a  vividness  which  made  it 
present.  Alas!  scarcely  two  months  had  elapsed  since 
then,  and  how  long  ago,  ho»r  far  off  it  all  seemed.  So 
absorbed  was  he  in  these  recollections  that  he  did  not 
hear  Sabine's  light  step.  When  he  raised  his  eyes  she 
was  standing  before  him  with  bowed  head  and  clasped 
hands  resting  upon  her  heavy  mourning  dress. 

"  Sabine,"  said  he,  "  dear  Sabine." 

A  swift  pang  pierced  her  heart;  fearing  to  betray  her- 
self she  turned  away,  and  taking  a  chair  was  silent  a 
iiioment.    When  she  spoke  it  was  in  a  cold,  calm  voice. 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me;  well,  I  am  ready  to  hear 

you." 

"  Did  you  not  expect  me,  Sabine  ?"  said  he. 

"  If,"  said  she  with  an  effort,  "  I  had  exported  you,  I 
should  have  spared  you  the  pain  of  this  interview.  I 
will  now,  however,  do  what  I  have  heretofore  neglected. 
As  there  is  nothing  farther  to  hope,  I  may  as  well  put 
an  end  to  farther  illusions.  Therefore,  M.  Fougerais,  I 
release  you  from  any  tie  which  may  bind  you  to  me." 

"  You  release  me  !"  cried  Benedict,  warmly  and  indig- 
nantly. "And  how  have  I  deserved  such  treatment? 
How  have  I  lost  your  confidence  and  affection  ?  I  un- 
derstand: your  idea  is  that  you  fear  to  associate  me  in 
the  affliction  which  has   most  undeservedly  come  upon 


wfmSrP^wmmfK^- 


i64 


IDOLS. 


you.  But  the  greater  your  trial,  the  greater  my  right  to 
share  it.  You  accepted  me  as  your  lover,  your  betrothed 
husband,  when  all  your  surroundings  were  happy  and 
prosperous;  you  shall  not  cast  me  off  now,  when,  as  an 
orphan,  you  need  an  honorable  man's  support  and  pro- 
tection," 

"  I  have  my  brother,"  said  Sabine,  quietly. 

"  But  the  fact  of  his  being  a  priest,  and  the  duties 
thereby  involved,  separate  you  at  almost  every  turn  from 
the  Abb6  Sulpice.  Besides,  a  brother's  love,  howsoever 
strong  and  enduring,  is  not  always  sufficient.  Ah  !  you 
know  me  very  little,  Sabine,  if  you  think  that  your  af- 
fliction has  not  drawn  me  still  nearer  to  you.  I  need 
not  now  repeat  that,  since  I  was  old  enough  to  dream  of 
a  future,  it  has  always  been  with  you  and  for  you."  , 

"I  know,"  said  Sabine,  in  a  low  voice;  "but  still  I 
repeat  that  I  release  you  from  your  promise." 

"Do  you  fear  that  I  hold  you  responsible  for  poor 
Xavier's  faults— too  dearly  expiated,  alas  !  by  the  sen- 
tence passed  upon  him  ?  But  you  will  not  be  left  alone 
in  your  misfortune.  To  me  and  to  society  belongs  the  task 
of  alleviating  Xavier's  condition,  and  working  unceasing- 
ly to  obtain  your  brother's  release.  Xavier  is  my  adopted 
brother;  I  shall  never  desert  him  any  more  than  you 
should  desert  me.  And  even  if  an  unjust  world  involves 
you  in  Xavier's  misfortune,  what  then  ?  We  will  brave 
it  together.  Leaning  on  me  you  will  breast  the  fury  of 
the  storm.  My  affection  shall  be  so  tender  and  consid- 
erate that  it  will  pass  by  and  you  will  scarcely  heed  it 
Sabine,  give  me  this  greatest  proof  of  your  confidence, 
and  accept  me  as  your  husband.  I  have  come  to  beg  of 
you  to  make  good  your  father's  promise." 

Sabine  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  and  there  was 
silence,  till  Benedict  said. 

♦•  Ah  !  your  silence  chills  me." 


THE  DREAM   ENDED. 


16$ 


!  greater  my  right  to 
lover,  your  betrothed 
igs  were  happy  and 
off  now,  when,  as  an 
I's  support  and  pro- 

,  quietly. 

riest,  and  the  duties 
most  every  turn  from 
ler's  love,  howsoever 
sufficient.  Ah !  you 
think  that  your  af- 
irer  to  you.  I  need 
enough  to  dream  of 
u  and  for  you."  , 
V  voice;  "but  still  I 
promise." 

responsible  for  poor 
:d,  alas  !  by  the  sen- 
will  not  be  left  alone 
ciety  belongs  the  task 
d  working  unceasing- 
Xavier  is  my  adopted 
any  more  than  you 
mjust  world  involves 
len  ?  We  will  brave 
ill  breast  the  fury  of 
>o  tender  and  consid- 
will  scarcely  heed  it 
f  of  your  confidence, 
[  have  come  to  beg  of 
imise." 
ment,  and  there  was 


r 

I  "  I  am  silent,"  replied  Sabine,  who  seemed  as  if  cast- 
I  ing  about  for  some  mode  of  expression  by  which  to  crush 
I  Benedict's  hoi>es  at  one  blow,  "  because  it  is  somewhat 
I  difficult  for  me  to  express  what  is  in  my  mind,  now  that 
I      my  father's  wishes  no  longer  weigh  upon  me." 

"  Weigh  upon  you  !"  cried  Benedict.  "  Did  he  ever 
attempt  to  persuade  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"  Once  only,"  said  Sabine,  blushing. 

"  What !"  cried  Benedict;  "  you  mean  to  say  that,  on 
that  day  when  I  ventured  to  make  known  my  secret 
hopes,  and  when  they  were  encouraged  in  a  manner  so 
paternal,  he  did  not  leave  you  free  ?" 

"  I  was  not  consulted,"  said  Sabine,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  still  you  did  not  refuse  the  husband  whom  he 
proposed  to  you  ?" 

"  Such  a  refusal  would  have  distressed  my  father,"  said 
she.  ' 

"  If  left  to  yourself,  I  would  not  have  been  your  own 
choice?"  cried  Benedict. 

"  No,"  said  she,  bowing  her  head. 

"Ah,  stop,  mademoiselle!"  cried  Benedict;  "you  are 
torturing  me.  But  still  I  ask  myself  if  it  may  not  be 
some  mad  feeling  of  heroism  which  accounts  for  your 
conduct  to-day  ?  Ah  !  do  you  not  remember  the  even- 
ing of  our  betrothal  ?  You  accepted  from  me  my 
mother's  betrothal  ring!  You  refused  a  dowry  from 
your  father,  feeling  certain  that  you  could  live  by  an 
artist's  work.  Were  your  courage  and  your  happiness 
alike  a  cruel  farce  of  which  I  was  the  dupe,  because  I 
believed  my  dream  to  be  reality  ?  Yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  my  heart  could  not  have  bee;  ■.  deceived,  and  that  I 
would  neither  have  been  so  proud  nor  so  happy.  It 
seems  to  me  that  respect  for  your  father's  will  could 
never  have  forced  you  to  give  me  that  proof  of  maidenly 
confidence.    Let  there  be  no  deception  on  your  part.    I 


i66 


IDOLS. 


have  worked  for  you;  I  have  struggled  for  you.  My 
whole  ambition  has  been  for  you.  You  were  my  hope, 
and  would  be,  I  thought,  my  reward.  I  served  Laban 
for  the  sake  of  Rachel.  I  kept  myself  free  from  all  the 
follies  and  the  temptations  natural  to  my  age  that  I 
might  be  worthy  of  you.  I  respected  myself  for  the 
sake  of  your  innocence  and  purity.  If  at  times,  seeing 
how  easily  my  companions  in  art  succeeded  without  real 
genius  or  industry,  I  felt  tempted  to  do  as  they  had 
done,  arriving  thus  quickly  at  the  goal  of  fame  and  for- 
tune, your  image  arose  before  me,  and  I  persevered  in 
the  thorny  way  wherein,  if  my  feet  were  bleeding,  at 
least  I  planted  no  flower  whose  odor  was  death.  Sa- 
bine, if  you  desert  me,  if  you  cast  me  off,  what  is  left 
to  me  ?" 

"  Your  conscience,"  answered  she. 

"  May  I  not,  in  my  despair,  forget  to  hear  its  voice  ?" 
said  Benedict. 

"  You  think  only  of  your  own  suffering,  Benedict," 
said  Sabine,  "  your  regret  for  a  young  girl,  your  be- 
trothed for  a  single  day,  your  companion  in  an  idle 
dream;  but  I  have  to  mourn  my  murdered  father,  my 
brother  condemned  to  penal  servitude." 

"  I  could  wish  you  less  strong,  Sabine,"  said  Benedict; 
"for  then  you  might  feel  the  need  of  consolation." 

"The  consolation  which  I  crave  cannot  come  from 
men,"  said  she.     "  I  expect  it  from  God  alone." 

"Cruel  child  !"  said  Benedict;  "but  if  that  suffices  for 
you,  my  heart  has  need  of  human  sympathy." 

"  Be  then  my  brother,"  said  Sabine;  "  my  brother  like 
Sulpice  and  Xavier." 

"  And  you  will  marry  some  one  else  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  will  never  marry,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand  to 
him  as  she  spoke. 

"No!"  said   he;  "I  reject  so  false  a  friendship— a 


THE  DREAM   ENDED. 


167 


iggled  for  you.    My 
You  were  my  hope, 
ird.     I  served  Laban 
self  free  from  all  the 
al  to  my  age   that  I 
lected  myself  for  the 
If  at  times,  seeing 
icceeded  without  real 
d  to  do  as  they  had 
goal  of  fame  and  for- 
and  I  persevered  in 
;et  were  bleeding,  at 
jdor  was  death.     Sa- 
me o£f,  what  is  left 


et  to  hear  its  voice  ?" 

suffering,  Benedict," 
young  girl,  your  be- 
ompanion   in  an  idle 

murdered  father,  my 
ude." 

abine,"  said  Benedict; 
of  consolation." 
re  cannot  come  from 
,  God  alone." 
but  if  that  suffices  for 
sympathy." 
ine;  "  my  brother  like 

else  ?"  said  he. 
Extending  her  hand  to 

false  a  friendship— a 


f 


I 


worthless  sentiment  which  in  no  wise  responds  to  my 
aspirations,  or  the  hope  of  my  life.  I  accept  my  sen- 
tence: it  is  banishment;  so  be  it !  Perhaps  at  some  fu- 
ture time  I  may  find  the  key  to  the  enigma  which  just 
now  I  cannot  understand." 

"Good  by,"  said  she,  rising. 

As  she  turned  away,  she  repeated,  in  a  lower  voice, 

"  Good  by  forever." 

As  she  was  leaving  the  room  the  Abb6  Sulpice  en- 
tered. At  one  glance  he  saw  what  had  occurred,  and  Sa- 
bine, throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  murmured, 

"  I  told  an  untruth,  but  it  was  to  save  him." 

The  young  priest  spoke  in  a  tone  of  authority  and 
even  severity. 

"  You  have  done  wrong,"  he  said, "  Sabine,  very  wrong. 
You  do  not  know  what  harm  you  may  have  done  to  a 
man  so  noble,  brave,  and  generous." 

Sabine  paid  no  heed  to  his  words.  For  once  she  dis- 
regarded the  advice  of  her  brother.  She  only  whispered, 
"  Console   him  !   console   him  !"  and  so  saying  hurried 

away. 

Sulpice  went  straight  to  Benedict. 

"  Brother,"  said  he,  "  for  you  will  remain  my  brother, 
try  to  be  brave.  Summon  all  your  strength  and  man- 
hood.   Who  can  tell  whether  Sabine  may  not—" 

"  Do  not  speak  of  her !"  cried  Benedict.  "  Her  cold- 
ness and  cruelty  were  the  best  proofs  of  what  she  said. 
In  consenting  to  become  my  wife,  she  acted  in  obedience 
to  her  father's  wishes.  Thank  you,  Sulpice;  thank  you. 
I  will  come  sometimes  that  we  may  talk  over  the  time 
when  I  believed  she  woald  be  a  link  between  us.  Good 
by.    1  am  only  a  man,  and  I  must  be  alone  to  think  it 

all  over."  ^^   , 

He  wrung  Sulpigjp'  hand,  and  hurried  away.  When 
he  returned  to  hif^dSo  he  ||lt,as  if  it  were  a  grave. 


'*  <.- 


•if 


Itt 


IDOLS. 


The  room,  furnished  with  such  exquisite  taste,  the  sanc- 
tuary of  art  which  he  had  arranged  with  so  much  care 
and  patience,  that  he  might  one  day  receive  Sabine 
there,  seemed  now  to  him  like  a  temple  shorn  of  its  holy 
images.  His  own  works,  which  he  had  hoped  she  would 
have  admired,  seemed  unworthy  of  any  praise.  He  who 
had  hitherto  been  so  confident  began  suddenly  to  doubt 
of  his  own  life  and  his  own  merit.  He  asked  himself  if  he 
had  not  been  a  presumptuous  fool  to  spend  his  youth  at 
such  arduous  toil,  which  had  led  to  so  cruel  a  disenchant- 
ment. 

He  did  not  unite  his  weary  soul  with  that  of  Christ, 
forsaken  and  suffering.  His  happiness,  so  suddenly  over- 
clouded, seemed  to  have  carried  away  his  faith  in  the 
universal  shipwreck. 

"Ah  !"  said  he,  in  an  outburst  of  self-pity  and  scorn, 
"  my  friends  were  right  enough  when  they  laughed  at 
my  wisdom,  sneered  at  my  cold  statues,  declaring  that 
inspication  was  not  to  be  found  where  I  persisted  in 
seeking  it.  I  wanted  only  Sabine,  forsaken  by  the  world, 
disgraced  by  her  brother's  sentence;  but  she  has  scorned 
and  rejected  me  !  At  first  I  thought  she  would  be  my 
ruin,  but,  perhaps,  in  reality,  she  has  saved  me.  I  am 
free  at  last.  I  am  young.  I  have  talent.  During  all 
my  twenty-five  years  of  life  I  have  never  drunk  of  the 
cup  of  pleasure.    In  it  I  shall  now  find  forgetfulness." 

Suddenly  he  broke  down,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 


"jiiiiiMiiiwiiii 


imm^- 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


i6^ 


lisite  taste,  the  sanc- 
l  with  so  much  care 
day  receive  Sabine 
pie  shorn  of  its  holy 
lad  hoped  she  would 
any  praise.  He  who 
in  suddenly  to  doubt 
e  asked  himself  if  he 
3  spend  his  youth  at 
9  cruel  a  disenchant- 

with  that  of  Christ, 
!ss,  so  suddenly  over- 
ivay  his  faith  in  the 

self-pity  and  scorn, 
len  they  laughed  at 
itues,  declaring  that 
Inhere  I  persisted  in 
rsaken  by  the  world, 

but  she  has  scorned 
^t  she  would  be  my 
IS  saved  me.     I  am 

talent.     During  all 

never  drunk  of  the 
ind  forgetfulness." 

face  in  his  hands, 


CHAPTER  XII. 
An  Artist  Supper. 

The  war  which  France,  with  the  greatest  imprudence, 
had  just  declared  against  Prussia  occupied  every  mind. 
Yet  so  great  was  the  confidence  in  her  own  arms  that  no 
one  doubted  of  ultimate  success.  Any  one  who  ex- 
pressed the  least  anxiety  as  to  her  glory  would  have  been 
deemed  wanting  in  patriotism.  The  war  was  regarded 
in  the  light  of  a  brilliant  military  campaign,  to  end  by 
an  entrance  into  the  hostile  capital.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  obstacles  to  be  surmounted  on  the  way  thither, 
of  delusive  hopes,  still  less  of  defeat.  At  the  moment 
of  departure,  the  triumphant  return  was  already  hailed. 

The  Exposition  of  May,  1870,  in  spite  of  military ^aiM 
political  movements,  the  rise  and  depression  of  stocks, 
and  the  excitement  of  the  war,  was  followed  with  re- 
markable, interest.  The  art  critics  pursued  their  ril/e 
with  a  strong  reinforcement  of  sounding  phrases,  much 
more  interested  in  showing  their  skill  as  writers  than 
in  the  progress  of  art,  or  in  that  of  the  painter  or  sculp- 
tor who  served  as  the  theme  for  their  brilliant  essays. 

Still  all  the  papers  were  unanimous  in  their  praise  of 
the  work  exhibited  by  Benedict  Fougerais.  It  was  not 
a  work  to  attract  the  multitude,  nor  draw  around  it  the 
admirers  of  the  realistic  school,  but  it  was  of  such  solid 
merit,  and  gave  evidence  of  workmanship  so  scientific, 
that  no  one  disputed  its  claim. 

Benedict's  group  represented  Religion  trampling  idols 
under  foot;  not  idols  of  bronze,  wood,  or  gold,  which 
are  called  mow  Isis,  now  Jupiter,  now  Vishnu,  or  Brahma, 


n 


170 


IDOLS. 


but  living  idols,  to  which   every  one  offers  sacrifice : 
Wealth,  Pleasure,  Glory. 

It  was  a  grand  and  lofty  idea,  broad  in  its  conception, 
sober  in  execution. 

In  it  the  artist  had  followed  the  traditions  of  the  mas- 
ters. The  lines  were  severe,  yet  not  stiff,  the  draperies 
supple  and  falling  in  graceful  folds,  while  a  scrupulous 
regard  to  anatomy  was  proof  of  long  and  patient  study. 
The  subject  gave  Benedict  scope  for  great  variety  of 
form,  expression,  attitude.  The  love  of  gold  was  rep- 
resented by  an  old  decrepit  man,  whose  skin  hung  loose 
and  shrivelled  upon  his  bones,  and  who  held  in  his  arms 
sacks  of  gold;  whilst  with  one  hand  he  clutched  a 
purse.  This  figure,  by  its  perfect  workmanship,  defied 
criticism. 

Pleasure,  under  the  form  of  a  woman,  had  just  thrown 
aside  an  empty  cup,  and  was  unstringing  a  necklace  of 
precious  stones.  The  expression  of  weariness  and  dis- 
gust upon  the  beautiful  face,  the  drooping  attitude,  the 
draperies  of  the  figure  disordered  by  the  sleep  that  fol- 
lows drunkenness,  proved  the  versatility  of  Benedict's 
chisel. 

Glory  was  represented  by  a  king,  crowned  and  en- 
compassed by  crowns,  trampling  under  foot  the  sceptres 
of  other  kings  whom  he  had  vanquished,  and  by  the 
figure  of  a  young  man  whose  face  bore  the  seal  of  in- 
spiration, but  whose  lyre  was  su'^.aenly  and  premature- 
ly broken  by  death. 

To  complete  the  base  of  the  group  were  sheaves  of 
arms,  vases  of  flowers,  arranged  artistically,  so  as  to 
throw  their  branches  over  the  pedestal,  preventing  the 
too  sudden  transition  from  the  Carrara  of  which  the 
group  was  composed  to  the  black  marble  of  the  pedes- 
tal. Standing  with  one  foot  upon  the  reclining  figfure  of 
the  woman,  her  hand  outstretched  towards  the  old  man, 


AN  ARTIST   SUPI'KR. 


171 


one  offers  sacrifice : 

3ad  in  its  conception, 

raditions  of  the  mas- 
ot  stiff,  the  draperies 
;,  while  a  scrupulous 
ng  and  patient  study, 
for  great  variety  of 
ve  of  gold  was  rep- 
hose  skin  hung  loose 
who  held  in  his  arms 
hand  he  clutched  a 
workmanship,  defied 

man,  had  just  thrown 
inging  a  necklace  of 
>f  weariness  and  dis- 
rooping  attitude,  the 
by  the  sleep  that  fol- 
satility  of  Benedict's 

\g,  crowned  and  cn- 
nder  foot  the  sceptres 
quished,  and  by  the 
bore  the  seal  of  in- 
lenly  and  premature- 

oup  were  sheaves  of 
artistically,  so  as  to 
iestal,  preventing  the 
'arrara  of  which  the 
marble  of  the  pedes- 
the  reclining  fig^ure  of 
towards  the  old  man, 


as  if  condemning  him  to  the  torture  of  unassuaged  de- 
sire, was  Religion,  her  beautiful  face  raised  to  heaven  as 
she  displayed  aloft  the  victorious  Cross.  It  was  a  grand, 
pure  face,  the  figure,  somewhat  larger  than  life,  combin- 
ing angelic  sweetness  with  majesty. 

This  work  showed  the  artist's  real  power,  and  at  once 
placed  Benedict  in  the  rank  of  those  from  whom  much 
was  to  be  expected. 

Benedict  had  been  very  happy  while  engaged  upon 
this  conception.  Often  did  exclaim,  as  he  stepped 
back  to  contemplate  an  effect,  "  Sabine  will  be  pleased." 
For  he  dedicated  to  her  this  work,  into  which  a  portion 
of  his  soul  as  well  as  his  genius  had  passed.  He  had 
counted  upon  the  profits  of  this  group  as  a  little  capital 
upon  which  to  begin  housekeeping.  He  hoped  that  the 
government  would  purchase  the  group.  To-day  it  had 
brought  him  fame;  to-morrow  it  would  bring  fortune — 
not  the  fortune  which  most  men  covet,  as  a  means  of  in- 
dulging in  dangerous  pleasures  or  wild  dissipation  which 
are  equally  enervating  to  genius,  but  wealth  which,  en- 
joyed sparingly  and  in  moderation,  brings  with  it  repose. 
What  greater  happiness  could  there  be  than  to  behold 
Sabine  happy  in  these  peaceful  surroundings,  and  to  feel 
that  this  happiness  was  not  purchased  by  yielding  to 
subversive  ideas,  by  worshipping  gold  for  its  own  sake, 
or  by  servile  homage  paid  to  the  degraded  or  frivolous 
taste  of  the  multitude  ? 

There  was  something  great  in  having  won  a  place 
among  real  artists,  without  being  guilty  of  flattery,  ser- 
vility, or  meanness.  For  who  is  totally  exempt  from 
meanness  that  is  determined  to  succeed  at  any  cost  ? 
Ah!  it  was  in  that  hour  of  compensation  for  his  laborious 
youth,  that  hour  when  success  and  happiness  together 
smiled  upon  him,  that  sorrow  had  seized  him  as  her 
prey;«and  rent  his  heart !     She  to  whom  his  heart  had 


m 


IDOLS. 


SO  completely  gone  out,  wiio  had  been  his  sole  joy,  now 
withdrew  her  hand  cruelly  from  his,  and  declared  that 
she  had  placed  it  there  only  in  obedience  to  her  father's 
will. 

For  three  days  Benedict  remained  shut  up  in  his 
studio,  as  one  sucidenly  stricken  down.  He  no  longer 
worked,  nor  even  thought,  for  his  thoughts  ever  strayed 
back  to  the  young  girl  who  had  so  coldly  rejected  him. 
Sometimes  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  she  had 
acted  thus  through  a  motive  of  self-sacrifice,  and  that 
she  really  suffered  as  much  as  he  did  from  the  separation 
which  she  believed  was  rendered  inevitable  by  Xavier's 
condemnation. 

He  reminded  himself  how  she  had  smiled  upon  him 
on  the  evening  of  their  betrothal,  and  the  innocent  joy 
which  had  lit  up  her  face.  He  heard  again  her  clear, 
pure  voice  singing  the  hymn  from  Haydn;  he  found  once 
more  the  woman  whom  he  had  once  loved,  cherished, 
venerated,  and  his  heart  beat  high  with  joy.  But  hope 
was  succeeded  by  profound  despondency.  Sulpice  had 
said  nothing  to  comfort  him  or  give  him  hope.  Did  he, 
too,  believe  that  his  sister  had  never  loved  him  ?  So  the 
artist  denied  admittance  to  every  one,  and  remained 
heart  and  soul  absorbed  in  his  sorrow.  His  strength 
failed  with  his  hope.  He  who  but  the  previous  day  had 
been  ready  for  the  accomplishment  of  great  and  noble 
work,  felt  himself  suddenly  incapable  of  anything.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  ambition  had  died  with  his  hap- 
piness. Glory,  the  eagle  flight  of  which  his  eyes  had 
followed,  now  fell  earthward  with  broken  wings,  and 
Benedict  asked  himself  if  the  artist  could  survive  the 
man's  despair. 

The  statues  in  his  studio  remained  in  their  covers  of 
green  serge;  the  clay  grew  hard  in  the  tubs;  the  stoois, 
upon  which  stood  busts  or  statues  just  commenced^  were 


AW  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


m 


een  his  sole  joy,  now 
is,  and  declared  that 
iience  to  her  father's 

ined  shut  up  in  his 
iown.  He  no  longer 
houghts  ever  strayed 
)  coldly  rejected  him. 
limself  that  she  had 
elf-sacriiice,  and  that 
d  from  the  separation 
nevitable  by  Xavier's 

lad  smiled  upon  him 
ind  the  innocent  joy 
card  again  her  clear, 
iaydn;  he  found  once 
>nce  loved,  cherished, 
with  joy.  But  hope 
ndency.  Sulpice  had 
e  him  hope.  Did  he, 
!r  loved  him  ?  So  the 
y  one,  and  remained 
orrow.  His  strength 
the  previous  day  had 
It  of  great  and  noble 
able  of  anything.  It 
ad  died  with  his  hap- 
:  which  his  eyes  had 
1  broken  wings,  and 
ist  could  survive  the 

led  in  their  covers  of 
I  the  tubs;  the  stoois, 
just  commenced^  were 


strewn  with  fragments  of  dried  earth.  That  room,  so 
lately  full  of  hope,  life,  strength,  and  industry,  became, 
as  it  were,  a  sealed  sepulchre,  which  Benedict  did  not 
care  to  reopen.  At  times  he  almost  wished  that  death 
would  seize  him  in  his  promising  youth,  and  that  the 
group  he  had  sculptured  might  be  his  monument. 

About  a  week  after  his  interview  with  Sabine  a  large 
document,  bearing  the  ministerial  seal,  was  handed  to 
him.  He  opened  it  absently.  But  in  reading  the  enclo- 
sure his  face  changed  and  brightened.  The  minister  in- 
formed  him  that  the  government  desired  to  purchase  his 
group,  and  asked  his  price;  adding  that,  to  encourage 
an  artist  who  already  gave  promise  of  so  brilliant  a 
future,  it  had  resolved  to  confide  an  important  work  to 
him.  This  was  to  be  a  group  representing  Hylas  car- 
ried of!  by  Nymphs,  and  was  for  the  decoration  of  9. 
monumental  fountain. 

"  Aye,"  said  Benedict,  bitterly,"  so  it  is;  success,  wealth, 
fame,  when  I  have  no  one  to  whom  I  can  offer  them, 
when  they  are  worthless." 

He  threw  the  letter  aside,  and  resumed  his  gloomy 
train  of  thought.  Presently  he  heard  the  bell.  For  a 
week  past  Beppo,  his  little  Italian  servant,  who  swept  the 
studio,  and  served  as  model  for  lazzaroni  and  pifferari, 
and  players  on  the  zampogne,  had  orders  to  admit  no  one, 
saying  that  his  master  was  unwell  and  unable  to  receive 
them.  They  usually  left  a  card,  promising  to  come 
again.  But  on  this  occasion  the  visitor  was  obstinate  ; 
he  raised  his  voice  threateningly,  he  even  maltreated 
Beppo,  who  went  so  far  as  to  place  himself  before  the 
studio  door  in  an  attitude  of  defiance.  The  visitor  took 
Beppo  by  the  collar,  threw  him  aside  like  a  rubber  ball, 
opened  the  door,  and  rushed  in  to  Benedict. 

"  You  are  in  to  me,"  he  cried,  seizing  the  artist  by 
both  hands. 


w 


n 


W\ 


174 


IDOLS. 


"  Lionel!"  cried  Benedict.  Tlien  he  added  dejectedly, 
"  But  I  am  not  myself." 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  said  the  artist;  "  blighted  affec- 
tion, broken  ties,  illusions  dispelled.  You  will  get  over 
all  that.  The  trials  of  life  come  thick  and  fast  upon  us, 
but  we  must  not  sink  under  them.  I  expected  this. 
Xavier  Pomereul's  trial  put  an  end  to  all  your  plans.  Of 
course  you  could  not  marry  a  girl  whose  brother  was 
condemned  to  the  galleys." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Lionel,"  said  Benedict,  "  in  my 
eyes  Sabine  was  free  from  the  slightest  stain.  I  believe 
in  Xavier's  innocence,  and  I  wanted  his  sister  for  my 
wife." 

"After  the  trial?" 

"  Still  more  after  such  an  affliction." 

"  That  is  heroic,"  said  Lionel,  "  but  foolish." 

"  Ah,  but  Sabine  refused  to  marry  me." 

"  By  Jupiter!"  said  Lionel,  "  I  call  her  a  noble  girl." 

"But  she  broke  her  solemn  promise." 

"MU-i.  Pomereul  had  promised  to  make  you  happy, 
but  not  to  ruin  you." 

"  She  has  succeeded  in  that  by  her  cruel  refusal.  I 
worked  for  Sabine;  my  fame,  if  I  can  call  it  so,  is  her 
doing.  With  her,  I  could  do  anything;  without  her,  I 
am  fit  for  nothing." 

"  Oh,  come,  now,"  said  Lionel,  "  you  think  so,  but  it 
is  not  the  case." 

"  It  is  as  true  as  my  sorrow." 

"  Of  course,  but  your  sorrow  will  gradually  grow  l6ss 
and  less." 

"  I  will  never  forget  Sabine." 

"Admitted.  But  neither  can  you  ever  forgret  art, 
which  is  the  source  of  sublime  pleasure.  You  will  not 
forget  sculpture,  because  it  will  be  your  support  and 
consolation.    You  will  find  other  Sabines  in  life,  but  you 


i^i 


^b»^.^i^:^'<*V. 


len  he  added  dejectedly, 

artist;  "blighted  affec- 
led.  You  will  get  over 
thick  and  fast  upon  us, 
liem.  I  expected  this, 
d  to  all  your  plans.  Of 
Efirl  whose  brother  was 

said  Benedict,  "in  my 
ghtest  stain.  I  believe 
nted  his  sister  for  my 


ion." 

'but  foolish.' 


rry  me. 

all  her  a  noble  girl." 

)mise." 

d  to  make  you  happy, 

)y  her  cruel  refusal.     I 

I  can  call  it  so,  is  her 

ything;  without  her,  I 

"  you  think  so,  but  it 


ill  gradually  grow  Itiss 


you  ever  forget  art, 
tleasure.    You  will  not 

be  your  support  and 
Sabines  in  life,  but  you 


■*,^, 


4   *^ 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


m 


I 

■  can  never  replace  the  art  to  which  you  have  consecrated 

■  yourself." 

■  As  he  spoke  Lionel  caught   sight  of  the    ministerial 

■  document  with  its  red  seal. 

■  "That    savors    of    the    Minister    of    Fine  Arts,"  he 
said. 

"  Read  it,"  said  Benedict,  offering  him  the  letter, 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  when  he  had  finished  reading, 
"  you  must  ask  thirty  thousand  francs  for  your  group; 
it  is  worth  more,  but  government  invariably  says  it  is  not 
rich,  and  we  must  take  its  good  will  for  the  deed.  The 
price  being  moderate,  you  may  consider  the  purchase 
made.  So  you  have  thirty  thousand  francs  in  advance 
for  the  expenses  of  the  fountain  which  is  ordered." 

"  But  I  will  not  do  the  fountain." 

"  Now,  there  you  are  again  with  your  notions.  You 
will  refuse  government  work  ?" 

"Government  work  of  that  sort,  at  all  events." 

"  Of  that  sort  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  The  choice  of  a 
subject  seems  to  me  remarkably  good  for  such  a  purpose. 
Have  you  a  pencil  here  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and 
began  to  sketch. 

"A  mass  of  rock  will  form  the  base.  Hylas,  who 
comes  to  slake  his  thirst  at  the  fountain,  will  be  upon 
one  of  them,  bending  towards  the  crystal  wave,  as  a  poet 
would  say.  Below,  a  nymph,  carelessly  reclining  upon 
the  golden  sands  of  the  fountain,  seizes  Hylas  by  the 
hand,  gently  drawing  him  downwards.  Another  kneels 
eager  and  trembling,  gazing  upon  their  prey,  whilst  a 
third  glides  about  among  the  leaves  and  sedges,  regard- 
ing the  scene  curiously,  and  waiting  for  the  fall  pf  Hy- 
las, who  is  hastening  to  his  death." 

I.iionel  held  out  the  paper  upon  which  he  had  sketched 
the  scene  to  Benedict 


Ml 


176 


IDOLS. 


"It  is  very  natural,"  said  Benedict,  "but  I  am  not  in 
the  least  tempted  to  accept  it." 

"Why?" 

"For  a  reason."  ' 

"  An  artist  should  never  have  any  reason  for  refusing  a 
government  order." 

"  You  are  wrong  there,"  said  Benedict ;  "  he  must  act 
according  to  his  convictions." 

"  But  what  has  '  Hylas  and  the  Nymphs '  to  do  with 
politics  ?" 

"  With  politics  ?    Nothing;  but  with  my  conscience." 

"  On  my  word,  I  am  in  the  dark,"  said  Lionel. 

"  Do  you  remember  my  group  ?" 

**It  made  stir  enough  not  to  be  easily  forgotten,"  said 
Lionel.  "  The  illustrated  papers  reproduced  it ;  Cham 
made  a  caricature  of  it;  nothing  was  wanting." 

"Then  you  must  see  that  I  cannot  be  inconsistent," 

"  But  I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  was  brought  up  by  a  good  man,  M.  Pomereul; 
taught  by  a  saintly  one,  the  Abb6  Sulpice  ;  betrothed  to 
the  purest  and  most  innocent  girl  I  have  ever  seen  and 
admired.  My  studies^  my  laborious  life,  the  atmosphere 
which  I  breathed,  heart  and  soul,  was  totally  apart  from 
the  usual  ideas  and  habits  of  ariists.  My  work  was  in 
accordance  with  my  life.  I  admire  the  talents  of  such 
men  as  Pradier,  Carpeaux,  and  Carrier-Belleuse,  but  I 
regret  that  it  is  wasted  in  producing  dangerous  if  not 
indecent  figures.  I  have  sworn  to  pay  homage  to  art  by 
never  executing,  whatever  the  temptation,  a  figure  at 
which  any  woman  might  blush.  My  studio  is  a  sanctu- 
ary, not  a  harem." 

"  Then  you  are  still  thinking  of  marrying  Sabine?"  said 
Lionel. 

"  Why,  because  I  did  not  marry  her,  am  I  to  change 
all  my  plans  ?"  said  Benedict. 


ct,  "but  I  am  not  in 

'  reason  for  refusing  a 

:nedict ;  "  he  must  act 

Nymphs '  to  do  with 

with  my  conscience." 
"  said  Lionel. 

easily  forgotten,"  said 
reproduced  it;  CAam 
IS  wanting." 
it  be  inconsistent." 

I  man,  M.  Pomereul; 
Sulpice  ;  betrothed  to 
I  have  ever  seen  and 
s  life,  the  atmosphere 
vas  totally  apart  from 
sts.  My  work  was  in 
'e  the  talents  of  such 
arrier-Belleuse,  but  I 
:ing  dangerous  if  not 
pay  homage  to  art  by 
mptation,  a  figure  at 
ly  studio  is  a  sanctu- 

iHrrying  Sabine?"  said 

her,  am  I  to  change 


,vLi.«*»;.^.,i_i.... . 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


m 


"  You  might  modify  them  ?"  said  Lionel. 

"  The  beautiful  must  be  always  the  beautiful,"  said 
Benedict. 

"  But  the  beautiful,  like  Hindoo  gods,"  said  Lionel, 
"  may  have  a  multiplicity  of  forms.  Beauty  lies  not  only 
in  drapery,  but  in  form.  I  admit  that  the  *  Three  Graces ' 
of  Germain  Pilon  is  admirable,  but  none  the  less  that  of 
Canova  is  exquisite." 

"  I  promised  to  follow  that  path." 

"  Whom  did  you  promise  ?  Your  patron  ?  His  death 
released  you  from  it.     Sabine,  who  has  refused  you  ?" 

"  My  conscience!"  said  Benedict. 

"  Ah,  but  then  you  must  have  two  consciences— your 
conscience  as  a  man,  and  your  conscience  as  an  arti^ — 
the  one  does  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  the  other.  I 
understand  and  approve  of  your  irreproachable  life,  but 
it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  marble  figures  which  you 
represent." 

"Hold  there,"  said  Benedict,  "an  artist's  work  is  a 
reflex  of  himself.  I  could  never  again  sculpture  a  group 
of  Religion  trampling  Idols  under  foot,  if  those  idols 
were  my  own,  and  if  religion  were  not  sacred  in  my 
eyes.' 

"  You  could  never  do  that,  but  you  could  do  something 
else.  Let  me  tell  you  your  group  is  superb,  but  you  will 
probably  show  your  greatest  strength  in  carrying  out 
this  government  order.  You  will  never  persuade  artists 
that  it  is  as  great  a  proof  of  gpirius  to  create  a  draped 
figure  as  an  undraped  one,  or  th.n  it  is  not  more  alfii 
cult  to  model  an  Eve  than  a  Lur  •  i  ia.  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  deserved  sue  eis  of  >  ur  ia- 1  groi.p,  it  can 
never  reach  the  Same  height  thrt  ilyias  and  the  Nfymphs 
will." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right/'  r?id  Benedict,  "  hu'c  I  will  at 
least  have  the  inward  sairsiactioc  of  knowing  that  I 


1 


•rrn 


III 


178 


IDOLS. 


have  been  faithful  to  the  course  I  marked  out  for  myself, 
and  that  I  have  never  made  art  subservient  to  passion." 

"Wait  forty-eight  hours  before  you  give  your  reply 
about  the  fountain,"  said  Lionel;  "but  do  not  lose  a 
moment  in  fixing  the  price  of  your  group.  I  am  going 
in  that  direction  and  will  deliver  your  letter." 

Benedict  began  to  write. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Lionel,  "I  am  having  a  house- 
warming  this  evening.  I  came  in  fact  to  give  you  my 
new  aadress.     Of  course  I  may  count  on  you." 

"You  do  not  understand  me,  Lionel." 

"  I  understand  that  you  are  despondent,  and  want 
cheering  up." 

"  I  need  to  be  alone." 

"  You  need  plenty  of  company  to  make  you  laugh." 

"  I  will  never  laugh  much  again.  I  feel  as  if  my  youth 
were  over." 

"  Then  you  should  only  work  for  funeral  decora- 
tions henceforth,  my  good  fellow.  Make  a  statue  of  Art 
with  his  torch  extinguished,  his  compass,  his  lyre,  and 
his  chisel  broken,  and  then  have  done  with  it.  Make 
your  will,  and  if  you  are  too  good  a  Christian  to  use  a 
brace  of  pistols,  set  off  for'  La  Trappe  and  take  the  vows. 
But  do  not  attempt  to  live  in  the  world  and  not  be  of 
the  world.  Fra  Angelico  became  a  monk,  and  Fra  Bar- 
tolomeo  wore  the  cowl.  One  must  be  consistent,  so 
unless  you  want  to  put  a  cloister  grating  between  your- 
self and  the  world,  you  must  do  as  it  does,  and  howl  with 
the  wolves,  only  showing  your  teeth  less  and  making 
less  noise  than  the  rest.  What  does  this  supper  amount 
to  after  all?  Sitting  down  to  table  with  some  friends 
who  appreciate  you." 

"And  who  have  not  a  single  idea  in  common  with 
me, 

"Upon  art  perhaps  not,   but   upon  /«//  aux  trufes, 


I 


r 


(larked  out  for  myself, 
bservient  to  passion." 
you  give  your  reply 
;  "but  do  not  lose  a 
r  group.  I  am  going 
Dur  letter." 

am  having  a  house - 
fact  to  give  you  my 

int  on  you." 

)nel." 

espondent,  and  want 


>  make  you  laugh." 
I  feel  as  if  my  youth 

for    funeral    decora- 
Make  a  statue  of  Art 
ompass,  his  lyre,  and 
done  with  it.     Make 
1  a  Christian  to  use  a 
pe  and  take  the  vows, 
world  and  not  be  of 
1  monk,  and  Fra  Bar- 
iist   be   consistent,   so 
rating  between  your- 
it  does,  and  howl  with 
:eth   less  and  making 
;s  this  supper  amount 
)le  with  some  friends 

dea  in  common  with 

ipon  pati  aux  truffes, 


I 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


179 


my  dear  boy,  it  is  another  story.  You  need  not  drink  if 
wine  does  not  agree  with  you;  you  need  not  sing  if  you 
do  not  feel  inclined.  You  can  su|c  in  a  corner  if  you 
please ;  you  can  rail  at  our  gayety  from  the  heights  of 
reason.  You  can  represent,  if  you  wish,  the  philosophers 
at  Couture's  "Fete  Romaine"  There  are  concessions 
enough  for  you,  I  hope." 

"  Thank  you,  Lionel,  but  I  cannot — " 

"  Refuse,  you  were  going  to  say,"  said  Lionel;  "  I  be- 
lieve you." 

"  No,  accept,"  said  Benedict;  "  my  wound  is  too  deep.'* 

"  The  more  reason  for  healing  it." 

"  It  will  reopen." 

"  When  the  weather  changes,  perhaps.  But  try  to  keep 
the  barometer  at  fair  weather." 

"  No,  Lionel,  once  more  no." 

"You  are  wrong,  Benedict,  and  I  am  sorry  to  see  it. 
If  vou  nourish  your  grief  in  gloomy  silence,  it  will  be- 
come a  disease.  It  will  paralyze  your  brain  and  your 
hand.  It  will  render  you  incapable  of  everything.  You 
will  be  among  those  to  whom  the  world  says  with  an 
evil  joy,  Vce  victis !  You  must  not  let  yourself  be  con- 
quered in  this  struggle.  Rise  the  greater  for  misfor- 
tune. Forget  Sabine,  give  the  Muse  the  place  once  held 
in  your  life  by  that  young  girl,  and,  arrested  in  your 
course  for  an  instant  b\  an  unforeseen  obstacle,  cross 
with  one  bound  the  barrier  at  the  foot  of  which  you  had 
lain  down  to  die." 

"I  have  no'     i;rength  for  all  this." 

"  Not  of  yourself  alone,  perhaps,  but  sustained  by  your 
friends,  and  I  am  a  fiiend,  Benedict." 

"  Tlien  leave  me  to  grieve." 

"  To  grieve  with  me,  yes.  You  shall  tell  me  of  your 
dreams  of  Sabine,  of  your  perished  happiness;  and  I 
shall  speak  in  glowing  terms  of  the  Muse  who  presides 


i8o 


IDOLS. 


over  sculpture.  I  will  paint  for  you  the  glory  which  you 
now  disdain,  and  in  a  few  months  you  will  not  only  be 
contented,  but  happy." 

"  If  I  could  believe  this." 

"  You  may  believe  me,  Benedict,  for  what  you  are  suf- 
fering I  have  suffered." 

"  Byt  was  the  one  you  loved  like  Sabine  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  found  that  art  was  better  and  higher  still." 

"I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  my  deliverer,  or 
merely  a  tempting  spirit,"  said  Benedict;  "  but  your  visit 
has  done  me  good." 

"  And  an  evening  spent  with  us  will  completely  restore 
you.    Will  you  come  ?" 

"  I  would  be  a  melancholy  guest,    said  Benedict. 

"The  philosopher  of  the  Fete  Romaine,  it  is  agreed. 
We  will  expect  you. " 

"  At  what  hour  is  supper  ?" 

"Nine  o'clock." 

"You  can  set  a  place  for  me,  Lionel." 

"And  I  will  take  your  letter  to  the  minister.  Au 
rtvoir." 

They  shook  hands  and  Lionel  went  out. 

"Ah,  signor  tnio,  I  shall  be  scolded,"  said  Beppo  to  him. 

"Get  your  master's  clothes  ready,  you  young  vaga- 
bond," said  Lionel,  "  and  spend  these  five  francs  to  my 
health." 

Beppo  showed  every  tooth  in  a  broad  grin.  Benedict 
called  him  in  a  moment  to  take  his  orders. 

"Lionel  is  about  right,"  thought  Benedict;  "if  sorrow 
is  not  strong  enough  to  kill  us  at  once,  why  should  we 
let  it  do  so  by  degrees  ?  I  will  not  enter  into  gayety  or 
folly  to-night.  But  contact  with  others  may  cheer  me 
up. 

Benedict  made  an  unusually  careful  toilet,  and  at  the 
appointed  how  arrived  at  his  friend's  studio. 


m,\ 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


i8i 


1  the  glory  which  you 
you  will  not  only  be 


for  what  you  are  suf- 

Sabine  ?" 

tterand  higher  still." 
are  my  deliverer,  or 
:dict;  "  but  your  visit 

'ill  completely  restore 

said  Benedict. 
*0maine,  it  is  agreed. 


nel." 

:o  the  minister.    Au 

nt  out. 

,"  said  Beppo  to  him. 
ly,  you  young  vaga- 
;se  five  francs  to  my 

'oad  grin.     Benedict 

orders. 

Benedict;  "  if  sorrow 

3nce,  why  should  we 

enter  into  gayety  or 

thers  may  cheer  me 

ful  toilet,  and  at  the 
's  studio.. 


It  was  a  large  room  with  a  very  high  ceiling  on  which 
draperies  forming  a  sort  of  tent  concealed  all  defects  in 
the  plastering.  Brilliant  pictures  in  large  gilt  frames 
claimed  immediate  attention.  Lionel  had  truly  an 
artist's  temperament,  and  everything  from  his  hand 
showed  power  and  originality*  Rare  pieces  of  faience, 
curious  coats-of-arms  mounted  in  panoplies,  statuary  or 
terra-cotta  figures,  various  knick-knacks,  canvases  by 
Beauvais  with  female  figures,  bunches  of  flowers  or 
wings  of  birds  peeping  out  from  dark  draperies,  con- 
tributed to  the  charming  effect  of  the  whole.  AU  the 
artist's  apparatus  had  been  pushed  into  corners,  and  the 
supper  table  was  served  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  It 
was  in  excellent  taste,  but  ir  such  sumptuous  style  as  to 
remind  one  of  the  gorgeous  feasts  which  Veronese  loved 
to  represent.  Venetian  crysvals  filled  with  flowers,  silver 
and  gold  ornaments  of  Gerni  •:  workmanship,  goblets 
for  champagne,  pitchers  of  foam.il^g  ale,  flasks  of  Italian 
wine,  thickset  decanters,  bottles  co\ered  with  straw,  and 
long-necked  ones  of  Rhine  wine  from  the  royal  vineyards 
of  Johannisberg,  sparkling  Moselle,  Chiraz,  with  tops  of 
rose-colored  silk  and  seals  of  fragrant  wax,  made  up  an 
inviting  whole. 

Vases  of  flowers,  pyramids  of  fruit,  chandeliers  of 
waxen  tapers  alternated  with  substantial  dishes.  Under 
the  tablecloth  was  a  rug  of  the  thickness  of  two  carpets, 
and  the  cloth  itself  was  of  the  finest  linen  ornamented 
with  lace  and  with  a  rich  border.  In  the  corners  of  the 
studio  statues  of  Venetian  negroes  holding  candelabra 
completed  the  ornamentation. 

When  Benedict  entered,  nearly  all  the  guests  wcrti 
assembled.  They  were  deep  in  conversation  and  his 
entrance  was  scarcely  noticed.  The  late  ones  having 
arrived,  the  curtains  were  drawn  and  supper  began. 
Benedict  did  not  regret  having  come.     He  sat  beside  an 


"^mr- 


^^Mj-^i^.itjA 


1 82 


IDOLS. 


old  brother  artist,  who  indulged  in  many  pleasant  rem. 
iniscences,  and  the  gayety  was  for  some  time  within  per- 
fectly reasonable  limits. 

Some  literary  men,  principally  art  critics,  enlivened 
the  occasion  by  excellent  stories.     The  mirth  was  real 
and  hearty.     The  drinking  was  done  slowly.     The  night 
was  long,  and  the  windows,  carefully  curtained,  did  not 
permit  day  to  penetrate  too  quickly  into  the  studio.     At 
length  the  company  began  to  grow  heated.     Congratu- 
lations were  exchanged  on  mutual  success.     Benedict 
received  a  great  many  compliments,  and,  as  he  omitted 
to  mention  the  purchase  of  his  group  by  the  Minister  of 
Arts,  Lionel  took  care  to  announce  it.     Every  hand  was 
immediately  stretched  out  to  him,  and  this  spontaneous 
sympathy  did  him  good.     He  realized  how  hard  it  was 
to  live  in  solitude,  and  depend  on  one's  self,  and  he  re- 
solved to  follow  his  friend's  advice  and  dispel  grief  by 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure.     He  slowly  emptied  his  glass, 
touching  it  to  that  of  an  art  critic,  and  his  face  began  to 
light  up;  but  it  was  not  with  the  inspired  light  of  old; 
it  was  rather  with  the  flush  of  wine  which  quickly  re- 
moved all  traces  of  tears.     Conversation  became  more 
animated;  words  flew  about   fike  arrows.     Foolish  sto- 
ries were  told;  each  one  spoke  of  projected  statues  or 
paintings.     In  turn  Benedict  was  questioned  as  to  his. 

"Ah  !"  said  Lionel,  "  he  has  no  choice— the  subject  is 
given  him." 

"  By  whom— a  banker  ?"  asked  one. 

"Better  tb=»n  that." 

"  A  prince  <" 

"  No;  a  king  called  Government." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  a  dozen  voices. 

"  Hylas  and  the  Nymphs." 

"  He  is  in  luck  !"  cried  they. 

"  You  do  not  know  him;  he  refuses." 


1 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


183 


in  many  pleasant  rem. 
r  some  time  within  per- 

y  art  critics,  enlivened 
i.  The  mirth  was  real 
one  slowly.  The  night 
fully  curtained,  did  not 
cly  into  the  studio.  At 
ow  heated.  Congratu- 
ual  success.  Benedict 
Its,  and,  as  he  omitted 
•oup  by  the  Minister  of 
ce  it.  Every  hand  was 
,  and  this  spontaneous 
ilized  how  hard  it  was 
1  one's  self,  and  he  re- 
:e  and  dispel  grief  by 
wly  emptied  his  glass, 
,  and  his  face  began  to 
i  inspired  light  of  old; 
ine  which  quickly  re- 
ersation  became  more 

arrows.  Foolish  sto- 
)f  projected  statues  or 
questioned  as  to  his. 

choice — the  subject  is 

one. 


ices. 


ises. 


"  Bah  !•• 

"  He  has  sworn  to  make  Madonnas  in  perpetuity." 

"  Take  care,  my  good  fellow,"  said  one;  "  that  is  dan- 
gerous." 

"  In  what  way  ?"  asked  Benedict. 

"  To  be  too  fond  of  draperies.  It  seems  as  if  you 
iind  it  easier  to  dress  a  lay  figure  than  to  reproduce 
nature," 

"  No,"  said  Benedict,  feeling  bound  to  defend  his  con- 
victions; "it  is  because  I  have  too  much  respect  for  art 
to  turn  it  to  base  uses." 

"  Bah  !  then  you  would  suppress  the  best  creations  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  burn  Raphael's  "  Triumph  of  Gala- 
tea." Art  for  art's  sake,  my  boy.  A  fig  for  those  who 
shield  themselves  under  a  pretence  of  morality.  I  could 
understand  your  scruples  if  you  were  about  to  marry; 
but  as  I  hear  that  is  all  over,  there  will  be  no  one  to  criti- 
cise your  work,  and  you  need  not  fear  to  offend  the 
squeamish  conscience  of  a  pretty  young  girl.  To  refuse 
a  government  order  !    It  is  an  unheard-of  thing." 

"  Perhaps,  sir,"  said  a  critic,  "  you  have  some  idea  of 
reforming  society,  and  remodelling  it  according  to  your 
notion.  You  will  never  succeed.  To  kfeep  the  favor  of 
the  multitude,  go  with  it.  What  harm  would  there  be 
in  modelling  the  Nymphs  and  the  youth  Hylas,  as  de- 
picted in  the  fable  ?  You  have  proved  that  religion  has 
power  to  inspire  you.  Show  us  now  what  poetry,  the 
theogony  of  Greece,  can  gain  from  your  chisel." 

"  To  the  fountain  of  the  Nymphs,"  said  Lionel,  raising 
his  glass. 

Benedict  was  silent;  His  neighbor  filled  his  glass  for 
him. 

"Empty  it  in  any  case,"  said  he.  "You  are  free  to 
do  as  you  wish.     They  will  call  you  a  devotee." 

Benedict  touched  glasses  with  his  neighbor. 


i 


i84 


IDOLS. 


HUn 


I  fit, 'I 


"To  art!"   cried  he,  "  under  whatsoever  form   it  Le 
To  art,  whose  love  never  deceives  us,  and  who  makes  ot 
us  what  we  im  ^,  and  will  make  us  immortal !" 

Gildas  now  rai-  ed  liis  glass,  and  sang  some  verses  in  a 
ringing  voice. 

"  Bravo,  bravo  '"  cried  the  young  men. 

Lionel  filled  the  poet's  glass. 

"  The  second  verse,"  said  he,  and  the  poet  improvised 
a  second. 

"  That  is  too  melancholy,"  said  a  voice.  And  the  poet 
began  a  third  and  last  stanza,  treating  of  the  sublimity 
of  art,  and  the  immortality  which  it  purchases. 

This  was  followed  by  an  outburst  of  enthusiasm.  The 
poet's  hand  was  warmly  shaken,  and  he  was  congratu- 
lated on  his  efforts. 

Conversation  then  began  to  change  its  tone.  Bottles 
and  decanters  were  emptied  with  astonishing  rapidity; 
the  guests  raised  their  voices,  and  some  became  very 
much  affecte'1.  The  journalists  registered  in  their  note- 
books the  name  of  Pr^ault,  the  ideal  sculptor.  The 
mirth  became  boisterous ;  they  all  talked  together  in 
different  keys  and  on  different  subjects.  An  amateur, 
seating  himself  at  the  piano,  played  the."  Marche  aux 
Flambeaux,"  whilst  the  artists,  half  tipsy,  took  a  dish, 
a  chandelier,  or  a  lamp,  and  walked  in  procession 
round  the  room.  Others  threw  themselves  down  on 
sofas  to  smoke,  and  the  poet  began  a  discourse  on  the 
"  Visions  of  Opium." 

Heads  grew  muddled,  words  inaudible,  and  soon  half 
the  company  was  asleep.  Before  they  left  the  studio  a 
servant  opened  the  shutters.  It  was  broad  daylight. 
Each  one  rose,  stretched  himself,  passed  his  hands 
through  his  dishevelled  hair,  glanced  at  his  disordered 
Clothing,  at  the  remnants  of  the  feast,  and,  lighting  fresh 
cigars,  went  away,  thanking  Lionel  for  his  royal  banquet. 


itsoever  form   it  Le 

IS,  and  who  makes  ot 

mmortal!" 

ang  some  verses  in  a 

f  men. 

tlie  poet  improvised 

voice.     And  the  poet 
ing  of  the  sublimity 
'.  purchases, 
of  enthusiasm.    The 
id  he  was  congratu- 

2^e  its  tone.  Bottles 
istonishing  rapidity; 
.  some  became  very 
istered  in  their  note- 
deal  sculptor.     The 

talked  together  in 
>jects.  An  amateur, 
:d  the."  Marche  aux 
f  tipsy,  took  a  dish, 
alked  in  procession 
hemselves  down  on 

a  discourse  on  the 

dible,  and  soon  half 
ey  left  the  studio  a 
vas  broad  daylight, 
passed  his  hands 
d  at  his  disordered 
t,  and,  lighting  fresh 
or  his  royal  banquet. 


AN  ARTIST  SUPPER. 


185 


"  Stay,"  said  Lionel  to  Benedict 

The  young  sculptor  paused. 

"Are  you  tired?'"  said  the  painter. 

"  No,"  said  the  other. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  ?" 

"  I  have  less  contempt  for  others  and  less  esteem  for 
myself,"  said  Benedict. 

"  That  is  not  bad.     Do  you  feel  like  working  ?" 

"  I  ?    I  have  not  an  idea  in  my  mind." 

"  So  much  the  better.  We  will  rest  together.  I  will 
dispose  of  this  evening:  " 

"Where  will  you  tak  ?" 

"To  the  theatre." 

"  To  hear  some  fashion  sze  J" 

"  Exactly." 

"  So  you  want  to  kill  my  soul  ?" 

"  To  kill  the  worm  which  is  gnawing  at  it." 

"  Can  you  be  certain,  Lionel,  that  the  soul  will  sur- 
vive ?" 

"  Its  only  use  just  now  is  to  make  you  suffer." 

"Just  now — yes;  but  once  it  was  all  my  joy  and 
strength." 

"  Once  is  far  off,  Benedict." 

"  Yes;  and  Sabine  will  never  be  my  wife.  As  you  will. 
I  will  stay.    Take  me  where  you  please." 

For  a  week  Lionel  continued  what  he  called  his  sav- 
ing of  Benedict.  He  hurried  him  from  pleasure  to 
pleasure,  varying  them  and  inventing  new  ones  with  a 
sort  of  genius.  At  first  Benedict  was  wearied  and  dis- 
gusted; then  he  began  to  find  the  pleasures  less  repul- 
sive, and,  as  they  gave  him  forgetfulness,  he  ended  by 
craving  them. 

One  morning,  however,  he  said  to  Lionel,  whose  apart* 
ments  he  now  shared, 

"  Have  you  any  modelling  wax  here  ?" 


186 


IDOLS. 


"I  think  so.  Isidor  began  his  group  of  Centaurs — a 
piece  of  idiocy.  Use  the  Centaurs  for  whatever  you 
want." 

Benedict  sat  down  at  the  table  and  began  to  model. 
Meanwiiile  I>ionel  painted  on  his  D6janire.  Both  were 
silent,  each  absorbed  in  his  work.  At  length  the  wan- 
ing day,  with  its  darkness,  warm  d  them  that  ;>  ir  tas'c 
had  been  already  too  far  prolonged.  Lionel  thi*..  .u>ide 
nis  brush,  and  stepped  back  to  judge  of  the  effecl  >t  h'^ 
work.  He  fixed  a  mirror  in  the  proper  position  to  sh'  \ 
the  canvas.  Satisfied  with  his  work,  he  said,  rubbing 
his  hands, 

"  The  D6janire  is  the  excuse  for  the  Centaur.  That 
will  come.     And  you?"  turning  to  Beatdict.  . 

Benedict  did  not  hear,  but  continued  to  model.  Lionel 
leaned  over  the  sculptor's  shoulder  and  v.atched  him. 
Henedict  was  just  finishing  the  rough  cast  of  t/.e  Foun- 
tain of  Hylas  and  the  Nymphs. 

"Bravo!"  said  Lionel,  with  sincere  admiration.  "It 
is  a  great  work,  and  will  be  the  beginning  of  your  real 
fame." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  sculptor;  adding  in  a  low  voice, 
"something  has  died  within  me." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  My  conscience,"  answered  Sabine's  lover. 


I  group  of  Centaurs — a 
aurs  for  whatever  you 

e  and  began  to  model. 
s  D6janire.  Both  were 
•k.  At  length  the  wan- 
(1  them  that  ;>  ir  tas'; 
ed.  Lionel  thi'  ,*.4de 
jdge  of  the  effect,  of  hk 
proper  position  to  sh'  \ 
work,  he  said,  rubbing 

for  the  Centaur.     That 

to  Bcn<:<lict.  . 
inued  to  model.    Lionel 
Ider  and  v.atched  him. 
ough  cast  of  t  .c  Foun- 

mcere  admiralion.     "It 
beginning  of  your  real 

adding  in  a  low  voice, 


bine's  lover. 


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TllK   (JOM)KN   CALF. 


187 


CHAPTER   XIII. 
The  Golden  Calf. 

The  fourth  floor  of  the  Pomereul  mansion  was  occu- 
pied, as  we  have  said,  by  the  servants  and  by  the  Abb6 
Sulpice.  His  apartments  were  so  arranged  that  the  first 
served  as  antechamber  to  the  second.  The  antecham- 
ber was  furnished  in  straw,  the  walls  covered  with  dark 
paper,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  table  of 
black  wood  loaded  with  papers.  The  second  was  like 
a  monk's  cell.  A  low  bed  formed  the  background;  a 
prie-dieu  was  placed  under  a  handsome  crucifix  which 
occupied  one  of  the  panels;  the  third  was^  completely 
taken  up  by  book-shelves,  giving  evidence  of  the  abb6's 
taste  for  study.  A  desk  full  of  deeds  and  manuscripts, 
a  lamp,  a  sofa  for  visitors,  and  a  straw  chair  for  the  abb6 
himself,  completed  the  furniture. 

The  young  priest  rose  at  five  o'clock,  celebrated  his 
morning  mass  at  the  Church  de  la  Trinite,  returned  at 
half-past  seven,  took  a  frugal  meal,  and  received  visitors 
till  ten  o'clock.  He  then  went  down  to  his  sister's 
apartments,  and  joined  to  some  extent  in  the  family  life 
till  it  was  time  to  set  out  for  Charenton,  where  he  su- 
perintended the  education  of  the  children,  visited  the 
sick,  and  consoled  the  suffering. 

When  he  returned  home,  he  devoted  two  hours  to  his 
correspondence,  reading  and  answering  letters.  Then 
he  again  received  those  who  wished  to  see  him;  after- 
wards made  his  calls,  or  went  whither  his  ministry  was 
required,  returned,  took  a  very  simple  meal  in  his  own 
rootti,  spent  a  little  while  with  Sabiile,  and  retired  to  take 
his  much-needed  rest. 


1 88 


IDOLS. 


There  was  no  need  of  being  announced  at  the  abbe's 
door.  It  usually  stood  open,  and  every  one  who  had  a 
favor  to  ask,  whether  he  were  rich  or  poor,  passed  in  by 
turns.  The  lady  of  rank  stood  side  by  side  with  the 
poor  workwoman;  the  mechanic  found  himself  in  com- 
pany with  some  influential  functionary;  and,  if  the  Abbe 
Sulpice  showed  partiality  to  any  one  in  the  matter  of 
admittance,  it  was  to  the  most  miserable,  whose  time 
was  naturally  most  precious.  People  came  from  all 
parts  of  Paris  to  see  him.  Many  of  the  highest  rank 
were  often  to  be  met  in  the  antechamber  of  the  Abbe 
Sulpice,  and  dignitaries  of  the  Church  came  to  seek 
counsel  of  the  young  priest,  whose  saintly  life  placed 
him  so  high  in  public  esteem. 

Sulpice  never  felt  vain  of  this  influence  which  he 
exercised  over  so  many  souls.  To  the  poor  he  simply 
said,  "  Suffer  patiently."  To  the  rich,  "  Give  of  your 
abundance,  and,  if  you  have  the  courage,  even  make 
sacrifices  in  order  to  give." 

One  morning  the  banker,  Andr6  Nicois,  presented 
himself  in  the  anteroom.  Whilst  the  Abb6  Sulpice  was 
busy  within,  consoling,  fortifying,  advising,  the  banker 
passed  in  review  the  hapless  ones  who  had  come  to  seek 
aid  of  the  priest;  for  all  were  in  some  way  poor  or  suf- 
fering. Some  sought  material  bread,  others  food  for 
the  soul.  Some  asked  for  courage  to  bear  some  afflic- 
tion. Mothers,  holding  pale  and  worn  children  to  their 
famished  breasts,  asked  for  alms  to  keep  them  from 
starvation.  Young  men  came  for  strength  and  guidance 
to  resist  the  temptations  of  life. 

The  banker  havint'  come  last  was  the  last  to  enter  the 
abb6's  private  room.  When  the  young  priest  recognized 
him  he  held  out  both  his  hands  with  the  greatest  warmth. 

"  You  come,"  he  said,  "  as  a  living  reminder  of  my 
dead  father  who  loved  you  so  much." 


1 


.  f 


r 


innounced  at  the  abbe's 
d  every  one  who  had  a 
:h  or  poor,  passed  in  by 

side  by  side  with  the 

found  himself  in  com- 
onary;  and,  if  the  Abbe 
y  one  in  the  matter  of 

miserable,  whose  time 
People  came  from  all 
ny  of  the  highest  rank 
itechamber  of  the  Abbe 

Church  came  to  seek 
lose  saintly  life  placed 

lis  influence  which  he 
To  the  poor  he  simply 
le  rich,  "  Give  of  your 
le  courage,  even  make 

idr6  Nicois,  presented 
it  the  Abb6  Sulpice  was 
5,  advising,  the  banker 
s  who  had  come  to  seek 
some  way  poor  or  suf- 
iread,  others  food  for 
^e  to  bear  some  afHic- 
worn  children  to  their 
IS  to  keep  them  from 
r  strength  and  guidance 

as  the  last  to  enter  the 
roung  priest  recognized 
th  the  greatest  warmth, 
living  reminder  of  my 
ich." 


THE  GOLDEN  CALF. 


189 


"Love  fully  returned  by  me,"  said  Nicois;  "and  God 
is  witness  that  you,  your  sister,  and  your  unfortunate 
brother,  are  equally  dear  to  me." 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  asked  the  abb^. 
"I  come,  in  the  first  place,  to  make  restitution. 
Thanks  to  your  timely  assistance,  I  passed  through  a 
financial  crisis.  I  have  come  to  return  you  the  hundred 
thousand  francs  which  you  placed  at  my  disposal." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  refuse  it,"  said  the  abb6,  "  as 
there  are  other  heirs  to  my  father's  fortune;  but  I  want 
you  to  promise  that,  if  ever  you  are  in  any  difficulty,  you 
will  apply  to  us." 

"  I  readily  promise,"  said  the  banker. 

"  So  your  affairs  have  really  taken  a  favorable  turn  ?" 
said  the  abb6. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  banker;  "  and  the  present  political 
movement  is  greatly  to  my  advantage.  The  war,  which 
has  ruined  a  gjreat  many  speculators,  has  thrown  an 
operation  in  my  way  by  means  of  which  I  realized  three 
millions  at  one  stroke." 

"  Three  millions  !"  cried  the  abb6. 

"  Yes,  three  millions,"  said  the  banker. 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  question  ?"  said  the  abb6. 

"Certainly." 

"  You  are  fond  of  money  ?" 

"Very  fond." 

"  But  you  are  not  avaricious  ?" 

"  No;  for  the  avaricious  love  to  hoard  money.  I  love 
to  spend  it." 

"Then  you  desire  to  amass  a  princely  fortune  by 
which  you  can  outrival  the  most  luxurious  in  luxury  ?" 

"  I  love  money,"  answered  Nicois,  "  because  it  is  the 
great  power  of  our  century;  it  founds  newspapers,  buys 
up  the  consciences  of  men,  and  governs  everything." 

"  Except  those  who  despise  it,"  said  the  abb^. 


IQO 


IDOLS. 


"  But  they  are  rare,"  said  the  banker, 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  the  Abbe  Sulpice,  "  but  I  seek  in 
vain  on  your  face  for  any  traces  of  this  idolatry  of  the 
golden  calf.  I  can  find  none.  I  do  not  believe,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  so,  that  this  thirst  after  riches  is 
natural  to  you;  it  is  an  excrescence  upon  your  character. 
The  longer  I  look  at  you  the  more  am  I  convinced  that 
your  disposition  is  generous." 

"You  may  be  right,"  said  Nicois;  "  but,  as  you  know, 
habit  becomes  a  second  nature.  My  father,  who  was 
born  rich,  was  ruined  by  the  failure  of  a  correspondent. 
I  was  then  seventeen — just  at  the  age  when  the  goods  of 
fortune  seem  most  enviable — and  I  felt  the  loss  of  my 
father's  money  bitterly.  He  did  not  long  survive  his 
misfortunes,  and  his  last  advice  to  me,  with  his  dying 
breath,  was  to  give  up  all  the  pleasures  of  youth,  and 
that  enjoyment  I  so  much  craved,  in  order  that  I  might 
make  a  second  fortune.  '  Listen,' said  he;  'the  Dufer- 
nois  have  a  daughter,  whose  dowry  will  be  a  million 
She  is  ten  years  old;  you  are  seventeen.  Our  late  re- 
verses will  not  prevent  Dufernois  from  giving  you  his 
daughter.  I  have  arranged  everything  for  your  happi- 
ness. Therefore  let  all  your  dreams,  hopes,  and  aspira- 
tions tend  towards  that  one  goal  of  wealth.  The  first 
million,  I  grant  you,  is  always  hard  to  make.  When  you 
get  one  from  Dufernois  the  rest  will  come  of  itself. 
Repair  what  was  not  my  fault  but  my  misfortune.  Take 
upon  the  Bourse  the  place  which  I  once  occupied.  Sov- 
ereigns succeed  each  other  upon  the  throne  of  France; 
the  kings  of  finance  alone  retain  their  power,'  I  an- 
swered in  a  way  which  satisfied  him,  but  when  he  in- 
sisted upon  my  marriage  with  Mile.  Dufernois  I  hesitated. 
He  saw  it,  and  fixed  a  piercing  glance  on  me.  I  hung 
my  head. 

" '  I  am  dying,'  said  he,  '  and  I  want  your  promise,' 


THE  G(JI-I)KN  CALF, 


191 


inker, 

Sulpice,  "  but  I  seek  in 
of  this  idolatry  of  the 
do  not  believe,  if  you 
3  thirst  after  riches  is 
;e  upon  your  character, 
e  am  I  convinced  that 

s;  "  but,  as  you  know, 
My  father,  who  was 
ire  of  a  correspondent, 
age  when  the  goods  of 
I  I  felt  the  loss  of  my 

not  long  survive  his 
to  me,  with  his  dying 
leasures  of  youth,  and 

in  order  that  I  might 
'said  he;  'the  Dufer- 
vry  will  be  a  million 
venteen.  Our  late  re- 
>  from  giving  you  his 
rthing  for  your  happi- 
ims,  hopes,  and  aspira- 
[  of  wealth.  The  first 
d  to  make.  When  you 
St  will  come  of  itself. 

my  misfortune.  Take 
[  once  occupied.     Sov- 

the  throne  of  France; 
1  their  power.'  I  an- 
him,  but  when  he  in- 
:.  Dufernois  I  hesitated. 
;lance  on  me.     I  hung 

want  your  promise.' 


"  I  gave  it.  He  died,  feeling  that  my  own  and  my 
mother's  future  was  secured.  I  kept  my  word.  Thence- 
forth I  worked  with  redoubled  ardor,  not  so  much  for 
love  of  money  at  first,  but  in  obedience  to  my  father's 
command.  Yet  at  times  I  reproached  myself,  reproached 
myself  bitterly." 

Nicois  paused,  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

The  abbe  took  his  hand. 

"Speak,"  said  he;  "it  will  do  you  good  to  tell  me  the 
story  of  your  life.     I  am  a  friend." 

"  But  a  friend  who  is  rather  too  austere." 

The  abbe  pointed  to  the  crucifix. 

"  A  confessor,  if  you  will,"  said  he. 

"  Not  yet.  But  in  whatever  way  you  put  it,  I  know  I 
can  depend  on  your  discretion." 

A  slight  pressure  of  the  hand  he  held  wa«  the  abbe's 
sole  reply. 

"  I  was  young,"  said  the  banker,  "  full  of  youthful  ardor 
and  impetuosity.     My  mother  was  a  good  woman  in  every 
sense  of  the  word,  but  indifferent  about  religion.     She 
bore  my  father's  name  with  honor,  but  she  did  not  teach 
me  what  she  had  never  known  herself,  the  inviolable 
principles  of  duty  which  depend  upon  the  keeping  of 
God's  commandments.     Her  advice  was  good,  but  never 
rose  above  social  propriety  or  personal  advantage.     She 
wished  me  to  be  happy,  but  she  thought  I  could  be  so 
without  that  faith  which  had  been  disregarded  in  her  own 
education.     I  was  young,  ardent,  fiery,  impulsive,  impa- 
tient of  all  restraint,  and  more  ambitious  of  pleasure 
than  of  fortune.     The  entire  liberty  I  enjoyed,  the  want 
of  all  religious  belief,  at  my  twenty  years  of  age,  neces- 
sarily led  me  into  a  dangerous  path,  and  I  followed  it. 
Without  consulting  my  mother,  forgetful  of  the  promise 
to  my  dying  father,  I  became  engaged  to  a  beautiful 
young  girl,  but  who,  alas !  was  poor.-  She  believed  in  me 


192 


IDOLS. 


entire!) ;  when  it  was  time  for  me  to  settle  in  life,  when  I 
vv;is  iwenty-fiveand  Mile.  Dufernois  eighleen,  my  mother 
reminded  me  of  my  father's  wish.  I  asked  for  time.  I 
had  not  courage  to  tell  the  confiding  creature  whom  I 
loved  that  I  had  lied  to  her,  and  read  her  contempt  for 
me  in  her  honest  eyes." 

Nicois  shuddered. 

"It  was  hard,  indeed,"  said  the  abbd,  "but  why  did 
you  not  state  the  case  to  your  mother?" 

"  She  would  have  laughed  at  my  scruples.  Not  judg- 
ing my  conduct  from  a  religious  standpoint,  she  would 
have  thought  my  fault  a  very  trifling  one,  and  have  had 
no  hesitation  in  bidding  me  break  the  heart  of  the  poor 
child  whom  I  had  asked  to  be  my  wife.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Dufernois  family  treated  me  already  as  a  son- 
in-law.  Mile.  Coralie  had  long  regarded  me  as  her  be- 
trothed. I  found  myself  helpless  between  the  obligations 
contracted  for  me  by  my  father,  my  attitude  in  the  house, 
and  the  intimacy  between  my  mother  and  these  friends. 
Doubtless,  had  I  confessed  the  truth  to  Mile.  Coralie,  she 
would  through  pride  have  advised  me  to  marry  the  poor 
girl  to  whom  I  had  solemnly  pledged  my  faith.  But  I 
will  tell  the  whole  truth  without  reserve,  and' in  spite  of 
my  shame  disclose  the  entire  workings  of  my  miserable 
heart.  I  knew  that  Mile.  Dufernois,  who  had  been  brought 
up  to  consider  herself  as  my  future  wife,  bore  me  a  ten- 
der affection,  somewhat  timid,  it  is  true,  but  infinitely 
charming,  gra'  ■  ul  and  attractive.  She  had  never  dreamt 
that  any  othei  -.'iiin  could  be  connected  with  her  life. 
Her  innocent  soul  rejoiced  that  she  could  so  easily  obey 
her  family  in  the  matter  of  choosing  her  husband.  She 
treated  me  with  touching  deference,  and  did  nothii\g 
without  my  advice;  as  the  time  for  our  marriage  ap- 
proached she  became  more  affectionate,  but  still  remained 
calm,  smiling  and  dignified.    Her  beauty,  and  the  ele- 


THE  GOLDEN  CALF. 


193 


to  settle  in  life,  when  1 
is  eighteen,  my  mother 
.  I  aslted  for  time.  I 
ding  creature  whom  I 
read  her  contempt  for 


e  abb6,  "but  why  did 
ther?" 

y  scruples.     Not  judg- 
standpoint,  she  would 
ling  one,  and  have  had 
i  the  heart  of  the  poor 
ly  wife.     On  the  other 
d  me  already  as  a  son- 
•egarded  me  as  her  be- 
between  the  obligations 
y  attitude  in  the  house, 
)ther  and  these  friends. 
ith  to  Mile.  Coralie,  she 
I  me  to  marry  the  poor 
dged  my  faith.     But  I 
reserve,  and  in  spite  of 
kings  of  my  miserable 
who  had  been  brought 
re  wife,  bore  me  a  ten- 
is  true,  but  infinitely 
She  had  never  dreamt 
)nnected  with  her  life, 
he  could  so  easily  obey 
ing  her  husband.    She 
nee,  and  did  nothing 
for  our  marriage  ap- 
nate,  but  still  remained 
r  beauty,  and  the  ele- 


gance of  her  manner  captivated  me.  I  compared  her, 
in  her  wealth  and  beauty,  with  the  poor  girl  to  whom  I 
had  dreamed  of  uniting  my  fate.  Yet,  if  I  had  been  free, 
I  should  never  have  hesitated.  My  heart  imperiously  in- 
clined to  my  first  love;  but  reason,  society — all  my  sur- 
roundings urged  me  towards  Mile.  Dufernois.  I  was 
forced  to  settle  matters  and  to  fix  a  date.  I  agreed  10 
everything;  in  the  first  place  for  want  of  any  sufficient 
reason  to  oppose  to  whatever  was  expected  of  me;  when 
I  found  myself  bound  so  that  retreat  was  impossible,  I 
asked  myself  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  other  one." 

Again  the  banker  stopped,  overcome  by  these  recollec- 
tions. His  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  as  though  his 
words  had  evoked  some  phantom  upon  which  he  gazed. 

"  How  far  off  it  is,  how  far  off,"  he  repeated,  "  and  yet, 
when  I  recall  those  days  it  seems  but  yesterday.  When 
the  time  of  my  marriage  was  settled  I  made  pretext  of  a 
journey  to  explain  my  absence,  and  told  the  poor  for- 
saken one  that  I  would  be  away  a  month  from  Paris. 
One  week  afterwards  I  married  Mile.  Dufernois.  She 
had  every  quality  which  could  attract;  from  the  day  of 
our  union  I  felt  in  anew  world;  I  even  persuaded  myself 
it  was  my  duty  to  act  as  I  had  done.  I  banished  re< 
morse  by  asking  myself  if  some  ambitious  motive  had 
not  influenced  the  poor  girl  whom  I  no  longer  loved. 
Having  betrayed  her  I  calumniated  her  to  nlyself,  though 
she  conquered  me  there.  When  she  learned  my  marriage 
with  Mile.  Dufernois,  she  wrote  me  a  letter  full  of  pity 
and  forgiveness.  She  prayed  that  Heaven  might  pardon 
me,  and  concluded  by  saying:  '  I  am  heart-stricken  and 
I  know  that  I  shall  not  live  long.  A  just  God  who  pun- 
ishes all  our  faults  will  demand  expiation  for  the  wrong 
you  have  done  me.  Alas !  my  greatest  pain  now  is  that 
all  my  love  for  you  cannot  avert  this  chastisement.' 

"  Very  soon  after  I  heard  of  her  death." 


194 


IDOLS. 


T 


"Poor  child,"  murmured  the  Abb6  Sulpice. 

''Alas!  even  her  death  affected  me  little.  I  forgot  my 
victim  in  the  happiness  of  seeinpf  a  child  at  my  firesidi-. 
This  child  became  my  joy,  my  hope,  and  my  ambition, 
i  consecrated  my  talents  and  my  whole  future — my  very 
life  to  it.  I  felt  myself  a  better  man  beside  its  cradle. 
The  child  was  lovely,  as  fair  as  a  lily,  with  sweet,  pun, 
blue  eyes.  Its  hair  was  of  a  peculiar  tawny  color,  in. 
creasing  the  beauty  of  the  spirituelle  face.  The  mothir 
was  enraptured.  Till  then  my  desire  for  wealth  had 
been  moderate.  My  wife's  dowry  seemed  sufficient,  and 
I  abandoned  myself  to  the  mere  pleasure  of  living,  prom- 
ising later  to  launch  out  into  speculations.  Everythintj 
combined  to  make  me  perfectly  happy.  The  recollec- 
tion of  the  poor  dead  girl  scarcely  ever  occurred  to  me, 
and  when  it  did,  made  little  impression  upon  me.  Hap- 
piness inspires  a  singular  confidence.  But  the  predic- 
tion of  punishment  was  verified,  though  delayed  for  four 
years." 

The  banker  wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

"  Courage,  courage,"  said  the  Abb6  Sulpice. 

"About  that  time,"  he  resumed,  "  I  was  obliged  to  go 
to  Austria;  I  expected  to  be  away  only  three  weeks,  and 
did  not  think  of  taking  my  wife  and  son.  While  I  was 
in  Vienna  I  received  a  letter  written  in  despair  by  my 
wife.     It  contained  but  these  words, 

" '  Our  child  has  been  stolen.' 

"  If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  upon  my  head  I  could  not 
have  felt  more  utterly  crushed.  Our  child  stolen  !  By 
whom,  and  why  ?  I  hastened  to  Paris.  I  questioned  my 
wife;  she  had  no  clue.  During  my  absence  a  strange 
servant  was  engaged;  four  days  after  the  child  went  for 
a  walk  with  her  and  disappeared.  The  servant,  fearing 
the  mother's  anger,  did  not  return,  A  complaint  lodged 
against  her  at  the  police  office  caused  her  to  be  found. 


Tin;  COI.DEN  CAl.F. 


19$ 


b6  Sulpice. 

ne  little.  I  forgot  my 
a  child  at  my  fireside. 
>pe,  and  my  ambition, 
irhole  future — my  very 
nan  beside  its  cradle, 
lily,  with  sweet,  pun, 
;uliar  tawny  color,  in. 
elle  face.  The  mother 
lesire  for  wealth  had 
seemed  sufficient,  and 
easure  of  living,  prom- 
:ulattons.  Everythinjj 
happy.  The  recollec- 
^  ever  occurred  to  me, 
ission  upon  me.  Hap- 
;nce.  But  the  predic- 
lough  delayed  for  four 

)iration  from  his  brow. 
bb6  Sulpice. 
,  "  I  was  obliged  to  go 
only  three  weeks,  and 
ind  son.  While  I  was 
:ten  in  despair  by  my 


>n  my  head  I  could  not 
)ur  child  stolen  !  By 
aris.  I  questioned  my 
my  absence  a  strange 
fter  the  child  went  for 
The  servant,  fearing 
A  complaint  lodged 
.used  her  to  be  found. 


She  fell  upon  her  knees  weeping  and  sobbing.  She  was 
honest.  It  had  happened  in  this  way:  Having  taken  the 
child  to  the  Tuileries,  at  its  request  the  nurse  went  into 
the  Champs  Elysces,  where  some  puppets  were  being  ex- 
hibited to  a  number  of  children.  There  was  a  great 
crowd  around  the  stand;  the  child,  enjoying  the  perform- 
ance, raised  the  cloth,  trying  to  discover  the  secrets  of 
the  wooden  actors,  and  his  nurse  laughed  with  him  in 
his  glee.  When  the  performance  was  over  there  was  a 
sudden  panic  in  the  crowd;  children  cried,  mothers  be- 
came alarmed.  The  greatest  confusion  prevailed,  and 
when  the  servant  sought  the  child,  it  had  disappeared. 
She  ran  to  and  fro  questioning  every  one.  No  one  could 
give  her  any  information.  Meantime  the  performers  had 
taken  up  their  stand,  packed  their  puppets  and  departed, 
so  that  the  girl  did  not  even  know  the  sppt  where  my 
poor  little  Marc  had  disappeared.  I  advertised  in  every 
paper  and  offered  immense  rewards;  I  had  placards 
posted  everywhere,  describing'  the  child  and  his  dress, 
but  all  in  vain,  he  was  never  found.  My  wife,  in  her 
despair  cried  out, 

"  O  my  God,  my  God !  why  are  we  so  afflicted !  we 
have  never  injured  any  one." 

"  Then  I  remembered. 

"  The  loss  of  my  child  was  God's  punishment  on  me." 

"  Did  not  this  thought  lead  you  to  repentance  ?"  asked 
.the  Abb6  Sulpice. 

"  No,"  said  Nicois;  "  my  grief  was  fierce,  wild,  selfish. 
It  hardened  me  instead  of  making  me  better." 

"Alas!"  murmured  the  priest. 

"I  blasphemed  God,  whom  I  said  had  punished  an 
innocent  woman  and  child  for  my  crime.  I  would  not 
even  admit  that  I  deserved  punishment.  I  made  use  of 
all  the  sophistry  by  which  young  men  excuse  the  criminal 
levity  of  their  conduct.     I  compared  my  blighted  life 


196 


IDOLS. 


with  the  easy  life  of  others,  and  I  cried  out  that  God 
was  unjust.  No  other  child  came  to  supply  the  loss  of 
our  poor  Marc.  We  remained  alone  with  the  bitter 
recollection  of  the  lost  child.  Often  did  I  follow  a  crowd 
of  little  beggar  children,  seeing  a  resemblance  to  my  son 
in  some  of  them,  and  drew  the  little  vagrants  into  con- 
versation, and  whenever  I  saw  jugglers  dragging  miser- 
able children  after  them,  I  stopped  and  questioned  them 
hoping  for  tidings  of  my  child.  I  hud  moments  of  de- 
spair when  I  beat  my  breast  and  sobbed  like  a  woman. 
More  than  once  in  my  outbrjrsts  of  grief  I  revealed  at 
least  a  portion  of  the  truth  to  my  wife.  She  guessed  the 
rest.  Slowly  and  gradually  she  shrank  away  from  me. 
I  felt  her  growing  estranged  and  detached  from  my  life, 
as  a  flower  from  its  sustaining  stem.  She  seemed  almost 
to  hate  me.  In  the  depths  of  her  soul  I  knevir  that  she 
accused  me  of  being  the  cause  of  her  misfortune.  Her 
love  for  our  stolen  child  became  stronger  than  her  love 
for  me.  She  began  to  remember  my  strange  moods  at 
the  time  of  our  marriage,  the  anxiety  concerning  which 
she  had  so  often  questioned  me,  and  which  she  now 
understood,  in  spite  of  all  attempt  at  dissimulation. 
Henceforth,  I  had  neither  companion  nor  friend  in  her. 
Madame  Nicois,  indeed,  remained  a  model  wife,  whose 
conduct  was  beyond  reproach,  but,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, merely  a  silent  shadow,  bound  to  my  life  indeed, 
but  no  longer  shari;ig  it.  I  made  some  efforts  to  win 
her  back,  but  I  failed.  Pride  forbade  any  farther  at- 
tempts, and  I  was  left  alone,  all  alone." 

"And  did  you  not  even  then  think  of  God  ?"  asked  the 
priest. 

"From  that  time,"  replied  the  banker,  "dates  my 
craving  after  wealth.  Happiness  being  denied  me,  I 
remembered  the  advice  of  my  father,  forgotten  during 
Uiose  happy  years;  I  bitterly  felt  that  all  W9$  faUe  ia 


m 


I  cried  out  that  God 
to  supply  the  loss  of 
lone  with  the  bitter 
n  did  I  follow  a  crowd 
ssemblance  to  my  son 
;le  vagrants  into  con- 
flers  dragging  miser- 
and  questioned  them 
hud  moments  of  de- 
lobbed  like  a  woman, 
f  grief  I  revealed  at 
ife.  She  guessed  the 
irank  away  from  me. 
:tached  from  my  life, 
.  She  seemed  almost 
soul  I  knevi^  that  she 
ler  misfortune.  Her 
ronger  than  her  love 
ny  strange  moods  at 
ity  concerning  which 
and  which  she  now 
pt  at  dissimulation. 
Dn  nor  friend  in  her. 
a  model  wife,  whose 
,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
nd  to  my  life  indeed, 
some  efforts  to  win 
}ade  any  farther  at- 
ie." 
I  of  God  ?"  asked  the 

banker,  "dates  my 
being  denied  me,  I 
ler,  forgotten  during 
{haX  all  W9»  (nise  in. 


THK   (UM.DliN   CAI.F. 


197 


this  world,  woman's  love,  the  promise  of  childhood;  that 
the  love  of  gold  alone  fultilled  its  promise.  Gold  brought 
influence,  purchased  honors  which  no  man  could  win  for 
himself,  opened  every  door,  surmounted  all  difficulties, 
subdued  everything  by  its  power;  gold  was  itself  fame, 
for  in  Paris  luxury  is  celebrity.  A  banker  who  obtains 
a  loan  for  the  government  is  ennobled  at  his  pleasure, 
and  becomes  allied  to  princely  families.  A  man  rich 
enough  to  own  a  newspaper  is  a  power;  the  ministers 
(latter  him,  the  court  makes  advances  to  him;  authors 
compare  him  to  Maecenas,  when  they  are  about  to  pub- 
lish their  last  novel.  All  the  beautiful  things  which  art 
creates,  or  the  wildest  fancy  invents,  are  his,  if  he  so  de- 
sires. He  builds  mansions  of  marble  in  the  heart  of 
Paris,  and  finds  flowers  of  every  land  and  clime  in  his 
conservatory.  To  be  rich  in  Paris  is  to  hold  the  greatest 
of  all  power.  Once  understanding  this,  I  said  to  my- 
self, I  will  be  rich.  If  I  were  rash  in  my  enterprises,  they 
were  nevertheless  crowned  with  success.  If  any  transient 
difficulties  embarrassed  me,  the  ultimate  result  far  sur- 
passed my  hopes.  I  fought  innumerable  battles,  and 
never  found  my  financial  Waterloo.  My  name  is  side  by 
side  with  the  most  distinguished  financiers,  and  that 
gold  which  I  so  eagerly  craved,  I  now  possess  in  such 
profusion  that  I  know  not  how  to  spend  it." 

"Do  you  find  the  expected  happiness  in  its  posses- 
sion ?"  asked  the  abb^. 

"  I  am  weary  of  the  mere  grat.iication  of  being  rich," 
said  Nicois;  "but  not  of  the  proud  comparison  which  I 
can  draw  between  myself  and  those  who  have  nothing." 

"  Then  you  admit,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  the  love  of 
gold  has  been  baneful  in  its  effects  ?  Far  better  for  you 
to  have  less  wealth  in  your  coffers  and  more  pity  in  your 
heart  for  others." 

"  Pity  for  others  ?"  repeated  the  banker^ 


198 


IDOLS. 


"  And  why  not,  my  friend  ?"  said  the  priest. 

"  Because  no  one  suffers  what  I  have  suffered." 

"  Have  you  forgotten,"  asked  the  priest,  rising  as  he 
spoke,  "the  last  bitter  trial  which  has  brought  Sabine 
and  me  to  the  foot  of  the  crucifix  ?" 

"No,"  said  Nicois;  "certainly  not,  but  think  of  my 
child,  my  child!  you  have  only  lost  a  brother." 

"  And  with  that  brother,  the  victim  of  a  deplorable  act 
of  folly,  we  have  lost  the  honor  of  the  family,  which  God 
knows  we  highly  prized.  Sabine  has,  moreover,  given 
up  the  intended  marriage  which  my  father  so  lately  blest, 
and  I  can  only  weep  with  her." 

"  What  ?  Mile.  Sabine  will  not  marry  M.  Fougerais  ?" 

"She  cannot,"  said  the  priest,  "and  I  apprpve  of  what 
she  has  done.  For  it  would  be  wrong  to  bring  the  dowry 
of  unmerited  disgrace  to  a  worthy  man  so  full  of  heart 
and  of  talent.  I  deplore  it  though,  for  I  doubt  if  Bene- 
dict is  strong  enough  to  stand  such  a  test.  What  must 
be  our  regret,  if  that  noble  intellect  of  his  should  lose 
the  sentiment  of  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  true,  now 
so  strong  ?  If  Benedict  once  ceased  to  be  the  Christian 
artist  whom  we  loved,  he  falls  into  an  abyss,  whence 
there  is  little  hope  of  rescuing  him." 

"  This  is  terrible,"  said  Nicois;  "  and  do  you  not  curse 
the  hand  which  has  stricken  you  ?" 

"We  adore  it,  even  in  its  severity,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Have  you  any  hope  ?"  said  Nicois. 

"  Yes;  that  light  may  be  thrown  upon  it  all,"  said  the 
abb& 

"  But  if  such  should  not  be  the  case,  if  like  Lesurques, 
your  brother  should  die  before  his  innocence  is  made 
manifest  ?" 

"I  shall  look  for  justice  there,"  said  the  priest,  point- 
ing upwards. 
"There  above  us,"  said  the  banker,  "is  the  air,  the 


1  the  priest. 

have  suffered." 

he  priest,  rising  as  he 

h  has  brought  Sabine 

I" 

not,  but  think  of  ni)' 
t  a  brother." 
;im  of  a  deplorable  act 
the  family,  which  God 
has,  moreover,  given 
y  father  so  lately  blest, 

larry  M.  Fougerais  ?" 
md  I  apprpve  of  what 
)ng  to  bring  the  dowry 
Y  man  so  full  of  heart 
,  for  I  doubt  if  Bene- 
h  a  test.  What  must 
:ct  of  his  should  lose 
autiful,  the  true,  now 
id  to  be  the  Christian 
ito  an  abyss,  whence 

'  and  do  you  not  curse 

i,"  said  the  priest. 
3is. 
upon  it  all,"  said  the 

ase,  if  like  Lesurques, 
is  innocence  is  made 

aid  the  priest,  point- 

iker,  "is  the  air,  the 


---rir 


TIIE  GOLDEN  CALF. 


199 

I  do 


ether  peopled  with  countless  stars,  but  that  is  all. 
not  believe  in  another  life." 

"  That  is  the  very  reason  w^hy  you  are  inconsolable," 
said  the  priest;  "  believe  me,  there  is  no  sorrow  so  great 
that  faith  cannot  soften  its  bitt  rness.  To  the  Christian 
a  grave  is  a  cradle.  When  we  kneel  beside  a  funeral 
pile,  we  venerate  the  remains  of  a  being  made  to  the 
image  of  God.  Whilst  our  eyes  follow  it  into  the  eternal 
world  where  all  is  pure  and  incorruptible,  the  certainty 
of  its  joy  is  the  best  solace  for  our  grief.  Ah'  if,  recog- 
nizing the  hand  which  had  stricken  you,  you  had  bowed 
down  humble  and  contrite  before  the  justice  of  Heaveu, 
deploring  your  fault  instead  of  blaspheming  God,  you 
would  have  suffered  less  I  assure  you.  If,  in  the  name 
of  your  lost  child,  you  had  relieved  misery,  assisted  poor 
mothers,  provided  asylums  for  orphans,  you  miorht  have 
appeased  the  anger  of  God,  and  obtained  the  recovery 
of  your  child.  You  believe  your  wretchedness  is  com- 
plete, but  are  you  certain  that  Heaven  has  punished  you 
sufficiently  ?" 

"Spare  me!"  cried  Nicois;  "do  not  add  to  my 
misery." 

"I  would  rather,"  said  Sulpice,  "apply  thereto  the 
sovereign  remedy  of  resignation." 

"Ah!  if  you  could  promise  me  that  at  any  cost  I  should 
find  my  child." 

"I  do  not  work  miracles,"  said  Sulpice;  "nor  do  I 
tempt  the  Lord,  my  God.  I  simply  tell  you  of  His  law, 
and  transmit  to  you  His  precepts.  You  have  suffered  a 
great  deal,  and  hitherto  found  no  alleviation  for  your 
grief.  It  is  because  He  alone  who  inflicted  the  wound 
can  heal  it.  All  your  wealth  could  not  console  you  as 
much  as  one  tear  shed  at  the  feet  of  God." 

The  banker  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  given  up  hopes  of  finding  my  son,"  said  he, 


*l . 


200 


IDOLS. 


1 


"and  I  cannot  suffer  more  than  I  have  done.  Thank 
you  for  hearing  me  with  such  patience.  My  heart  still 
remains  closed  against  that  God  whom  you  would  fain 
make  me  to  love.  To  find  happiness  in  abnegation  and 
self-sacrifice  one  must  have  known  and  loved  that  God 
from  childhood." 

"  Then,"  said  the  priest,  •«  there  is  nothing  I  can  do 
for  you  ?" 

"  Do  not  say  so,"  said  the  banker.  "  I  regard  you  as 
among  myiwarmest  friends,  and  friends  are  scarce.  If  I 
should  ever  have  new  cause  of  suffering  I  will  confide  it 
to  you  alone." 

The  banker  shook  hands  warmly  with  the  young  priest 
and  went  away. 

"  My  God  !"  cried  the  priest,  when  he  was  thus  left 
alone,  "  wilt  Thou  permit  that  heart  to  suffer  so,  instead 
of  drawing  it  to  Thee  ?" 

He  remained  some  time  prostrate  in  prayer  for  the 
man  whom  so  many  envied,  and  who  was,  nevertheless, 
8o  wretched.     Then  going  down  stairs,  he  found  Sabine,' 
who  had  just  come  in. 
"  You  have  been  there  ?"  he  asked. 
She  answered  by  an  affirmative  nod. 
"  Tell  me  of  him,"  said  the  priest. 
"  I  found  him  more  prostrated  than  ever  by  his  mis- 
fortune.     There  is  reason  to  fear  for  his  health,  which 
has  been  terribly  shaken  by  all  these  shocks.    He  is  in  a 
high  fever.     He  asks  justice  of  men  and  forgets  to  ask 
pardon  of  God.     If  I  did  not  hope  that  he  would  yet 
be  acquitted,  and  that  the  real  culprit  would  be  found,  I 
should  ask  God  to  take  Xavier  to  Himself." 

"There  is  every  reason  to  hope,  Sabine,  even  against 
hope.  If,  the  unhappy  boy  perseveres  in  these  rebellious 
dispositions  we  can  only  pray  and  suffer  for  him  and 
with  him,  that  he  may  at  length  be  brought  to  resigiia* 


I  have  done.  Thank 
tience.  My  heart  still 
vhom  you  would  fain 
ess  in  abnegation  and 
n  and  loved  that  God 

is  nothing  I  can  do 

jr.  •'  I  regard  you  as 
iends  are  scarce.  If  I 
ering  I  will  confide  it 

with  the  young  priest 

len  he  was  thus  left 
t  to  suffer  so,  instead 

ite  in  prayer  for  the 
rho  was,  nevertheless, 
airs,  he  found  Sabine, 

d. 
od. 

lan  ever  by  his  mis- 
for  his  health,  which 
e  shocks.  He  is  in  a 
n  and  forgets  to  ask 
5  that  he  would  yet 
rit  would  be  found,  I 
imself." 

Sabine,  even  against 

es  in  these  rebellious 

suffer  for  him  and 

brought  tQ  resigm- 


THE  GOLDEN  CALF. 


201 


tion.  An  occasion  for  further  self-sacrifice  may  soon  be 
offered  us;  even  women  may  be  called  upon  to  fulfil  a 
sublime  mission,  and  in  that  case  we  will  hope  that  our 
misfortunes  have  kindled  in  us  a  sacred  and  purifying 
flame." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Sabine,  "  I  understand.  But  for  my  utter 
loneliness  and  desolation  you  would  have  gone  with  the 
army.  A  soldier  cf  the  Cross,  you  would  have  faced 
death  beside  the  soldiers  of  glory.  When  I  see  so  many 
young  and  noble  priests  hastening  to  the  scene  of  war, 
I  have  often  thought  that  your  place  is  with  them;  but 
my  courage  failed  me  when  I  would  have  advised  you 
to  follow  them.  I  asked  myself  what  would  become  of 
me,  between  the  thought  of  my  poor  despairing  brother 
and  the  memory  of  one  whom  I  shall  never  see  again." 

"  Then  you  still  regret  him  ?"  said  the  priest.  "  You 
are  grieving  for  him.     Why  not  call  him  back  ?" 

"  Duty  forbids  it.  Sorrow  has  its  dignity,  and  I  would 
rather  he  should  think  me  cold  and  insensible  than  self- 
ish and  cowardly.  If  I  cannot  at  once  subdue  an  affec- 
tion encouraged  by  my  father  and  blessed  by  you,  I  can 
at  least  prove  myself  worthy  a  good  man's  love  by  wear- 
ing mourning  like  a  widow." 

Baptiste  came  in  just  then  with  the  papers.  The 
abb6  tore  them  open  with  a  hasty  gesture,  and  glanced 
down  the  columns  anxiously.  Broken  exclamations  es- 
caped him;  his  eyes  grew  dim;  his  heart  beat  high. 

"  Defeated  !"  cried  he;  "  not  in  an  equal  combat,  but 
overpowered  by  force  of  numbers.  Reverses  on  all 
sides!  And,  though  obscure  soldiers  are  covering  them- 
selves with  glory,  and  performing  prodigies  of  valor, 
they  cannot  save  the  army,  nor  preserve  France.  Ah  ! 
will  Heaven  abandon  the  country  of  Charlemagne,  of 
St.  Louis,  and  of  Joan  d'Arc  ?  Will  this  invasion,  swell- 
ing like  a  threatening  sea,  at  last  engulf  Paris  ?    Alas ! 


m' 


•'SS'.3 


2c: 


IDOLS. 


there  is  no  Genevieve's  crook  to  oppose  to  Attiia's  bat. 
tIe-axe.  It  is  heart-breaking  to  read  of  it.  France  be- 
trayed, sold,  delivered  to  its  enemies  by  some  new  Judas. 
Such  will  be  the  verdict  of  posterity.  Never  again  shall 
that  sublime  feeling  of  love  of  country  fill  all  hearts. 
Never  again  shall  France  rise  as  a  nation,  indignant^ 
wronged,  but  yet  invincible.  No  nation  could  ever  con- 
quer her  till  she  has  once  felt  the  shame  of  defeat. 
They  spend  the  time  for  action  in  words.  Plans  are 
being  made  when  the  moment  has  come  to  take  up  arms, 
and  meanwhile  the  Prussian  army  is  encircling  us  in  its 
folds,  and  will  finally  crush  us." 

"  What  !••  cried  Sabine.  "  Do  you  fear  that  France—" 
"  Will  be  conquered?  Such  is  ever  the  fate  of  nations 
when,  enervated  by  luxury,  permeated  to  their  very  core 
by  vice,  they  deserve  a  terrible  awakening.  How  terri- 
ble it  seems  to  me,  as  a  priest,  no  less  than  as  a  French- 
man, that  a  ProtesUnt  soldiery  should  set  foot  upon 
Catholic  France  !     And  yet — " 

"  They  dare  not  attack  Paris  !"  cried  Sabine. 
"  They  will  dare.  It  is  their  turn  now." 
"  What  will  you  do  ?"  asked  Sabine.  "  When  I  thought 
of  your  going  away  with  the  army  to  some  distant 
place,  and  leaving  me  alone  and  desolate,  my  courage 
failed  me.  But  if  I  can,  as  it  were,  fight  by  your  side- 
take  my  share  of  the  common  burden,  staunch  wounds, 
console,  and  comfort— in  a  word,  play  my  woman's  part' 
count  on  me,  Sulpice.  The  sister  will  be  worthy  of  the 
brother.  My  weakness  and  hesitation  shall  be  lost  sight 
of  in  face  of  danger;  and,  rising  above  my  own  sorrows, 
I  will  do  all  for  love  of  Him  who  has  afflicted  us." 

Baptlste  threw  open  the  door  of  the  room,  and  said, 
in  a  voice  f '  deep  emotion, 

"Sir,  A  deputation   from  Charenton  wants   to   see 
you." 


T 


THE  GOLDEN  CALF. 


203 


ppose  to  Attila's  bat 
ad  of  it.     France  be- 
es by  some  new  Judas, 
y.     Never  again  shall 
)untry  fill  all  hearts. 

a  nation,  indignant, 
lation  could  ever  con- 
:he  shame  of  defeat, 
n  words.  Plans  are 
ome  to  take  up  arms, 

is  encircling  us  in  its 

J  fear  that  France—" 
er  the  fate  of  nations 
ted  to  their  very  core 
ikening.  How  terri- 
;ss  than  as  a  French- 
hould  set  foot  upon 

ried  Sabine. 

now." 

!.  "  When  I  thought 
my  to  some  distant 
lesolate,  my  courage 

fight  by  your  side — 
len,  staunch  wounds, 
ly  my  woman's  part, 
irill  be  worthy  of  the 
3n  shall  be  lost  sight 
)ve  my  own  sorrows, 
s  afflicted  us." 

the  room,  and  said, 

nton  wants   to   see 


"  Show  them  in,  and  I  will  see  them  presently,"  said 
the  priest. 

"  Bring  them  here,"  said  Sabine;  "  they  are,  we  might 
say,  part  of  the  family." 

Baptiste  went  out  for  the  workmen,  and  soon  ushered 
in  about  twenty  of  them.  They  were  men  of  various 
ages,  all  scrupulously  neat  in  their  personal  appearance. 

"  Pardon  us,"  said  the  spokesman,  "  for  intruding 
upon  you  here,  and,  so  to  say,  forcing  your  door;  but 
our  reason  is  important.  Not  a  moment  is  to  be  lost  in 
a  matter  which  we  have  so  much  at  heart.  Terrible  news 
is  placarded  on  the  walls;  and,  in  spite  of  reassuring 
words  from  some  of  the  papers,  we  suspect  the  fearful 
truth.  We  have  come  to  you,  our  guide  and  counsellor, 
to  ask  your  advice,  and  whether  you  are  of  opinion 
that  France  will  be  conquered  in  this  war,  and  Paris 
besieged  ?" 

"  I  still  hope  that  France  will  repel  the  foe  which  has 
now  set  foot  upon  her  territory;  but  Paris  will  be  be- 
sieged." 

"  Then  who  will  defend  it  ?  Our  soldiers  are  on  the 
frontiers." 

"  The  Parisians,"  answered  the  abb^. 

"  We  wanted  but  the  word,  sir,"  cried  the  man;  "  for 
we  know  that  your  advice  will  coincide  with  the  dictates 
of  honor.  If  the  Parisians  have  to  defend  Paris,  they 
must  know  how  to  hold  a  musket.  Our  comrades  arc 
frantic  s'nce  yesterday's  news;  they  long  to  fight  like 
lions.  This  is  our  idea:  since  the  beginning  of  the  war 
labor  is  at  a  standstill.  Let  us  stop  all  ornamental  work 
for  the  present.  The  founders  will  find  plenty  to  do;  for 
cannon  and  artillery  will  be  needed  before  long.  They 
can  serve  their  country  by  preparing  engines  of  war; 
and  the  others — well,  the  others  must  learn  to  be  soldiers 
as  fast  as  they  can.    We  will  unite  in  forming  an  inde- 


204 


IDOLS. 


pendent  battalion.     And  we  have  come  to  ask  you  to  he 
our  chaplain." 

"  Brave  men !"  cried  the  priest,  shaking  hands  with 
the  foremost;  "  worthy  sons  of  France  !  I  accept  with 
all  my  heart.  You,  arms  in  hand,  and  I  with  the  cruci- 
fix, will  do  our  duty  before  God  and  men." 

"And  I?"  said  Sabine,  stepping  forward.  "And  I, 
brother?" 

"  You  will  go  to  Charenton.  Assist  these  brave  men's 
wives.  Tell  them  from  me  that  their  husbands  shall  re- 
ceive their  usual  salary  as  long  as  the  war  lasts.  Then, 
as  we  have  to  look  forward  to  great  trials  and  stern 
realities,  you  must  choose  the  most  intelligent  women, 
and  with  them  organize  an  ambulance  in  the  factory.  The 
wounded  can  be  brought  thither.  Draw  as  largely  as 
you  please  upon  our  coffers;  for  we  shall  be  always  rich 
if  we  always  succeed  in  doing  good." 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,"  cried  Blanc-Cadet,  "we  shall 
fight  with  tenfold  courage,  when  we  have  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  if  a  ball  should  strike  one  of  us  he  shall 
be  brought  to  our  dear  factory  and  cared  for  by  you." 

"  We  are  only  paying  our  father's  debt,  good  friends," 
said  Sabine;  "the  fortune  which  we  now  enjoy  was  made 
by  you ;  it  is  just  that  it  now  be  of  assistance  to  you. 
You  know  that  even  before  our  recent  afflictions  we 
always  had  your  welfare  at  heart.  Your  wives  and 
daughters  will  henceforth  be  our  sisters;  I  adopt  your 
children.  If  any  of  you  should  fall  upon  the  field  of 
battle  he  will  leave  no  orphans,  they  will  belong  thence- 
forth to  the  Pomereul  family." 

There  were  few  dry  eyes  among  the  group  when  she 
had  finished,  but  the  Abb6  Sulpice  resumed: 

"And  it  must  be  understood  that. I  shall  take  upon 
myself  the  equipment  of  the  men;  any  of  you  who  have 
been  soldiers  can  drill  the  others.    This  ^'ery  day  I  will 


:  come  to  ask  you  to  be 

;t,  shaking  hands  with 
France  !     I  accept  with 
d,  and  I  with  the  cruci- 
ind  men." 
ng  forward.     "And  I, 

Lssist  these  brave  men's 
heir  husbands  shall  re- 
i  the  war  lasts.  Then, 
great  trials  and  stern 
ost  intelligent  women, 
nee  in  the  factory.  The 
•.  Draw  as  largely  as 
ve  shall  be  always  rich 
.d." 

lane-Cadet,  "we  shall 
re  have  the  consolation 
rike  one  of  us  he  shall 
d  cared  for  by  you." 
■'s  debt,  good  friends," 
re  now  enjoy  was  made 
of  assistance  to  you. 

•  recent  afflictions  we 
art.     Your  wives  and 

•  sisters;  I  adopt  your 
fall  upon  the  field  of 

ley  will  belong  thence- 

f  the  group  when  she 
i  resumed: 

that. I  shall  take  upon 

;  any  of  you  who  have 

This  very  day  I  will 


THE  GOLDEN  CALF. 


20S 


go  to  the  archbishop  and  ask  his  approval.  I  shall  not 
see  you  again  to-day,  as  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do,  but 
to-morrow  I  shall  meet  you  without  fail." 

"  To-morrow,"  repeated  Sabine. 

The  workmen  then  withdrew,  with  renewed  acknowl- 
edgments to  Sulpice  and  Sabine,  and  the  young  priest 
almost  immediately  left  his  sister. 

"My  path  is  now  marked  out  for  me,"  said  he;  "  let  us 
be  with  God,  and  God  will  be  with  us." 

Sabine  spent  the  afternoon  in  arranging  papers,  and 
disposing  of  everything,  as  if  for  a  long  absence.  At  six 
o'clock  her  brother  returned. 

"  On  the  eve  of  the  gladiatorial  combats,"  said  he  to 
his  sister,  "  the  martyrs  always  took  their  last  meal  to- 
gether.    I  will  share  yours  this  evening." 

"  Ah,  Sulpice,  do  you  already  think  of  death  ?" 

"  I  want  at  least  to  be  ready,"  said  he.  "  But  do  not 
be  downcast.  For  it  seems  to  .me  that  my  mission  will 
be  long,  and  that  I  have  yet  to  save  Xavier." 

Then  he  kissed  her  upon  the  forehead. 

"It  is,  my  dear  sister,"  said  he,  "the  brother's  kiss  and 
it  is  also  the  priest's  benediction.  And  now  hold  out 
your  arm." 

She  did  so,  and  the  Abb6  Pomereul  fastened  thereupon 
the  white  shield  bearing  the  Geneva  Cross. 

The  young  girl  knelt  down  before  him. 

"  My  brother,"  said  she,  "  and  my  father  also,  foryou  are 
my  spiritual  father,  bless  this  life  which  will  be  exposed 
henceforth  for  my  neighbor,  and  bless  my  death  should 
Go<^  take  me." 

"Rise,  Christian,"  said  the  priest  when  he  had  blessed 
her;  "  it  is  the  wiU  of  God.' 


fli 


206 


IDULS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  War.  ' 

On  the  night  of  the-ist  October,  1870,  a  party  of  young 
men  were  gathered  round  a  camp  fire.  It  was  very  cold. 
And  in  spite  of  many  armfuls  of  wood  and  logs  thrown 
upon  the  embers,  they  could  scarcely  keep  warm.  They 
held  their  hands  over  the  blaze  which  now  rose  into  the 
air,  and  again,  driven  downwards  by  a  blast  of  wind,  al- 
most scorched  their  faces.  They  were  silent.  At  that 
crisis  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  especially  of  those  who 
had  taken  up  arms  to  defend  the  ramparts,  were  marked 
by  a  melancholy  gravity.  The  beginning  of  that  dis- 
astrous war  had  been  remarkable  for  heroic  efforts,  for 
deeds  of  valor  worthy  the  archives  of  glory;  but,  by  a 
strange  fatality,  or  by  the  incompetence  of  those  who 
had  usurped  power  on  the  4th  of  September,  all  this 
courage,  valor  and  enthusiasm  were  nullified.  The 
National  Guard,  and  the  volunteers  not  being  called  to 
arms,  were  consumed  with  secret  rage,  thinking  of  the 
perils  which  threatened  the  capital  on  every  side. 

Each  time  that  the  call  resounded  in  Paris  they  rose, 
sniffed  the  air,  scenting  the  powder,  and  attaching  the 
last  green  branches  to  tlieir  muskets,  thus  saluting  in 
advance  the  victory  which  was  to  break  up  the  brazen 
column  that  now  threatened  the  besieged  city  with  de- 
struction. Every  evening,  alas!  the  remnants  of  heroic 
battalions  returned  irom  the  slaughter  blood-stained, 
weary,  their  numbers  lessened,  blaming  their  com- 
manders, who  had  made  them  believe  that  the  war  would 


T 


IV. 


1870,  a  party  of  young 
ire.  It  was  very  cold, 
ood  and  logs  thrown 
ly  keep  warm.  They 
ich  now  rose  into  the 
ay  a  blast  of  wind,  al- 
were  silent.  At  that 
pecially  of  those  who 
imparts,  were  marked 
!ginning  of  that  dis- 
for  heroic  efforts,  for 
s  of  glory;  but,  by  a 
letence  of  those  who 
f  September,  all  this 
vere  nullified.  The 
3  not  being  called  to 
rage,  thinking  of  the 
on  every  side, 
ed  in  Paris  they  rose, 
:r,  and  attaching  the 
^ets,  thus  saluting  in 
break  up  the  brazen 
esieged  city  with  de- 
e  remnants  of  heroic 
ighter  blood-stained, 
blaming  their  com- 
^e  that  the  war  would 


THE  WAR. 


207 


be  a  war  of  extermination,  and  who  veiled  their  cow- 
ardice under  an  appearance  of  devoted  patriotism. 

That  night  the  hearts  of  the  young  soldiers  were  burst- 
ing with  indignation. 

Ever  and  anon  one  of  them  raised  his  head  with  a 
threatening  scowl  upon  his  face,  or  another  examined 
the  condition  of  his  arms,  while  a  third  wrote  in  a  note- 
book his  will  in  favor  of  those  dear  ones  whom  he  could 
scarcely  hope  to  see  again.  Ever  and  anon  a  young 
artist,  who  was  among  the  little  group  of  patriots,  re- 
cited some  martial  verses  from  the  poets,  or  sang  one  of 
those  military  airs  which  so  often  serve  to  revive  droop- 
ing courage,  and  to  thrill  the  soul  with  love  of  country. 

This  little  group  of  men,  who  gathered  grave  and  stern 
around  their  camp  fire,  chilled  by  the  cold  night  air,  were 
all  artists,  students,  or  men  of  letters.  Th^  had  been 
carefully  chosen,  poets,  painters,  sculptors  and  novelists, 
undertaking  with  noble  enthusiasm  and  generous  valor 
the  defence  of  their  beloved  Paris,  destined  to  be  so 
treacherously  betrayed. 

In  truth  since  the  very  commencement  of  that  succes- 
sion of  disasters,  unparalleled  in  history,  they  had  indulged 
in  much  lawful  anger,  and  shed  many  tears;  but  once 
the  word  went  forth  to  stand,  they  were  found  arms  in 
hand,  with  courageous  hearts,  a  resolute,  brave  and  noble 
phalanx,  waiting  to  be  cut  to  pieces,  less  indeed  by  the 
enemy  than  by  the  misdeeds  of  those  who  should  have 
sustained  them,  and  whose  only  aim  seems  to  have  been 
to  act  the  Judas. 

"What  a  dreary  vigil!"  said  the  youngest  of  the 
watchers  suddenly  breaking  silence;  "far  better  the  roar 
of  caiinon  than  this  death-like  stillness.  When  the  sound 
of  artillery  strikes  upon  the  ear,  then,  at  least,  we  can 
fight,  struggle,  and  take  our  chance  of  victory  or  a  glori- 
ous  death.    But  when  all  is  quiet,  and  we  feel  that  in 


iliiliii^^ 


3o8 


IDOLS. 


these  nights  of  perfect  calm  we  are  wasting  our  lives 
and  consuming  our  provisions,  on  my  word  it  drives  one 
mad." 

"Yes,  Gildas,"  said  another,  whose  face  as  the  fire- 
light fell  upon  it  was  dark  with  despair,  while  his  voice 
sounded  hoarse  and  unnatural,  "  yes,  Gildas,  better  the 
struggle  than  such  repose  as  this.  What  say  you.  Bene 
diet  ?"  he  added,  turning  to  one  of  the  group,  who  sat 
with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 

"I  say,"  answered  the  young  sculptor,  "that  I  pray 
Heaven  to  be  among  the  first  killed  upon  the  field  of 
battle  when  we  are  exposed  to  fire.  I  am  weary  of  this 
defence  which  is  not  a  defence,  of  this  marching  and 
never  advancing;  of  victories  which  end  in  retreat,  of  the 
day's  orders  which  resound  with  the  names  of  obscure 
soldiers  who  must  be  forgotten  to-morrow." 

"It  is  true,"  said  a  dramatic  author,  who  was  taking 
notes  on  a  tablet.  "  We  are  spectators  of  a  bloody  tra- 
gedy, and  when  the  flag  goes  down  we  cannot  exclaim 
with  the  ancient  armies,  even  in  their  defeat,  'All  is  lost, 
save  honor.'  The  soldiers  have  indeed  sustained  their 
former  reputation.  But  what  will  the  leaders,  the  mem- 
bers of  that  usurping  and  incompetent  government,  an- 
swer to  France  when  it  demands  of  them,  '  What  have 
you  done  with  my  sons  ?  They  were  willing  to  fight,  to  die, 
through  you  it  has  ended  in  a  bloody  farce.'  Ah!  may 
the  shame  at  least  fall  upon  them.  I  swear  that  if  we 
come  forth  defeated  from  this  struggle  I,  at  least,  will 
do  my  utmost  to  place  the  stigma  of  infamy  where  it  is 
due." 

"  Think  of  the  long  list  of  battles  lost,"  cried  Benedict 
Fougerais  in  a  tone  of  feverish  excitement.  "  When  we 
remember  with  what  ardor  the  soldiers  marched  to 
battle,  and  witness  the  result  of  the  struggle,  it  fills  us 
with  shame,  terror  and  amazeinent." 


THE  WAR. 


209 


are  wasting  our  lives 
my  word  it  drives  one 

hose  face  as  the  fire- 
jspair,  while  his  voice 
yes,  Gildas,  better  the 
What  say  you,  Bene 
)f  the  group,  who  sat 

culptor,  "that  I  pray 
lied  upon  the  field  of 
;.  I  am  weary  of  this 
of  this  marching  and 
\i  end  in  retreat,  of  the 
the  names  of  obscure 
morrow." 

ithor,  who  was  taking 
itors  of  a  bloody  tra- 
i^n  we  cannot  exclaim 
eir  defeat,  'All  is  lost, 
ideed  sustained  their 
the  leaders,  the  mem- 
etent  government,  an- 
of  them,  'What  have 
willing  to  fight,  to  die, 
3ody  farce.'  Ah!  may 
I  swear  that  if  we 
^gglc  I)  at  least,  will 
of  infamy  where  it  is 

s  lost,"  cried  Benedict 
:itement.  "  When  we 
soldiers  marched  to 
le  struggle,  it  fills  us 


r 

I  "How  proud  we  were,"  continued  Gildas,  "when  the 
I  first  battle  took  place  outside  of  Paris,  on  the  19th  of  Sep- 
tember. At  Chatillon,  Ciamart  and  Plessis-Piquetour 
troops  made  a  brave  but  useless  defence;  and  the  Bre- 
tons rushed  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  with  the  scapu- 
lar on  their  breasts  and  a  hymn  on  their  lips,  their  ven- 
erable chaplain  following  them  into  battle,  animating 
tliem,  consoling  when  they  fell,  and  praying  over  the 
grave  which  he  dug  for  them.  Such  details  brought 
tears  to  our  eyes  and  filled  us  with  enthusiasm;  but  when 
these  brave  men  had  won  a  position,  they  were  recalled 
and  hindered  from  pushing  their  victory  farther," 

"  Ah,  but  it  was  worse  next  day,"  exclaimed  Benedict. 
"  Gildas  you  remember,  and  you,  Lionel.  The  Prussians, 
from  their  ambush,  kept  up  a  furious  fire  upon  the  forts  of 
Aubervilliers  and  Noisy.  The  order  was  giyen  in  Paris, 
and  the  Bretons  set  out  like  the  brave  men  they  are,  sing- 
ing and  vowing  to  return  as  conquerors.  How  they  did 
fight !  with  what  wonderful  daring  they  skirmished  about 
Bondy  before  making  the  assault !  And  when  they  had 
not  only  made  good  their  position,  but  would  have  pur- 
sued the  enemy,  they  were  as  usual  commanded  to  retreat, 
which  they  did  in  good  order,  according  to  the  reports. 

"Oh,"  he  cried  after  a  pause,  "if  they  had  but  called 
out  a  hundred  or  two  hundred  thousand  of  the  national 
guard,  sharp-shooters,  infantry,  volunteers,  all  under  dif- 
ferent names  united  for  the  same  end.  Only  the  word 
would  have  been  needed.  '  Dig  a  trench,'  and  the  trench 
would  have  been  dug.  But,  instead,  a  few  battalions -are 
ordered  out,  and  go  to  unavailing  butchery.  In  the  history 
of  all  great  sieges  every  man  took  up  arms  and  fought, 
and  when  there  were  no  more  men  to  guard  the  ramparts, 
the  women  sufficed  to  defend  them,  and  God  be  praised  ! 
the  women  of  Paris  once  roused  have  heroism  enough 
for  anything.*' 


i 


IDOLS. 


"You  are  right,"  said  Gildas,  "and  that  is  why  when- 
ever  I  spe  one  of  those  heroic  creatures  wearing  upon  her 
arm  the  Geneva  Cross  I  take  off  my  hi-t  with  profound 
respect.  People  rail  against  the  Parisian  woman  for  her 
levity,  her  coquetry,  her  love  of  dress  and  of  luxury;  but 
there  remains  in  her  something  of  that  old  valor  whi(  li 
belonged  to  the  peasant  girl  who  led  the  Parisians  u> 
their  defence  against  Attila,  and  braved  the  fury  of  the 
•Scourge  of  God."* 

"When  we  consider,"  said  an  old  man,  raising  his  tail 
figure  gradually  from  the  ground,  "that  the  occupation 
of  the  village  of  Vitry  and  of  Moulin  Saquet  by  the 
Mauduit  division  had  no  result,  any  more  than  when  on 
the  following  day  it  took  up  a  splendid  position  at 
Villejuif." 

"And  at  the  very  same  time,"  said  Gildas,  "Admiral 
Saisset  did  something  brilliant  in  the  way  of  reconnoit- 
ring, and  finished  his  retreat  by  inches." 

"  Always  retreat,"  cried  Benedict.  "  Read  the  bulletins. 
•The  troops  fell  back  in  good  order.'  The  permanent 
occupation  of  places  taken  not  seeming  advisable,  a  re- 
treat is  made  with  the  most  wonderful  coolness.  Well, 
I  say,  let  us  have  done  with  it;  let  us  have  no  more  re- 
treat, no  more  falling  back;  we  have  had  enough  of  this 
child's  play,  at  which  the  enemy  must  be  laughing  be- 
hind its  bastions !  Come  now.  Colonel,  you  are  a  vet- 
eran, and  have  fought  on  many  fields,  and  I  ask  you  [3 
this  what  you  understand  by  war  ?" 

An  old  man  with  white  moustachios  and  figure  some- 
what bent,  whom  Benedict  addressed  as  colonel,  though 
he  wore  none  of  the  insignia  of  such  a  rank,  shook  his 
head  and  answered  in  a  voice,  husky  at  first,  but  which 
gradually  became  clear  and  ringing. 

•'  No,  gentlemen,  I  will  tell  my  children,  as  I  have  al- 
ready told  my  old  soldiers.     I  was  at  Sebastopol,  and 


T 


and  that  is  why  when- 
tures  wearing  upon  her 
my  h4't  with  profound 
Parisian  woman  for  her 
ess  and  of  luxury;  but 
f  that  old  valor  wliii  li 
3  led  the  Parisians  tn 
brayed  the  fury  of  tho 

d  man,  raising  Iiis  tail 

"that  the  occupation 

doulin   Saquet  by  the 

ly  more  than  when  on 

splendid   position   at 

said  Gildas,  "Admiral 
the  way  of  reconnoit- 
ches." 

.  "  Read  the  bulletins, 
der.'  The  permanent 
eming  advisable,  a  re- 
erful  coolness.  Well, 
t  us  have  no  more  re- 
ve  had  enough  of  this 
must  be  laughing  be- 
alonel,  you  are  a  vet- 
:lds,  and  I  ask  you  [3 

hios  and  figure  some- 
ied  as  colonel,  though 
ucIt  a  rank,  shook  his 
ky  at  first,  but  which 

r. 

;hildren,  as  I  have  al- 
ts at  Sebastopol,  and 


rilK  WAR. 


SI  I 


when  we  heard  the  order,  '  To  the  assault ! '  no  leader  ever 
df.red  to  stop  us  on  our  way  to  victory.  I  have  foughf 
in  Africa  against  the  Arabs^  and  the  watch-word  amongst 
us  was,  'Retu-  n  as  conquerors  or  not  at  all.'  Why,  the 
Spartan  mothei  had  more  military  genius  than  the  gen- 
erals of  to-day.  'Above  or  below,'  said  they  to  their 
sons,  as  they  buckled  on  their  shields.  In  Mexico — a  bad 
country  it  was — but  every  one  did  his  duty.  In  Italy, 
wherever,  in  fact,  1  have  heard  the  roar  of  cannoij  or  the 
whistling  of  bullets,  the  order  was  'Go  forward,'  and 
none  ever  dared  to  say  '  Fall  back,'  till  the  enemy  were 
defeated  or  put  to  tliglit.  That  is  why,  do  you  see,  the 
old  Colonel,  who  was  wont  to  lead  his  Zouaves  to  fire, 
would  rather  serve  like  you  as  private  soldiers,  than  com- 
mand men  who  might  one  day  cast  upon  him  the  stigma 
of  a  shameful  defeat.  I  would  willingly  hiv,ve  offered  my 
country  my  long  experience  of  war,  and  such  military 
genius  as  is  the  result  of  sudden  inspirations;  but  I  might 
have  been  cast  into  the  shade,  and  the  orders  of  inconv 
petent  superiors  so  enrage  me  that  I  would  break  my 
old  sword.  I  might  perhaps  have  given  bad  example  to 
my  men  by  blaming  their  leaders,  so  I  became  a  soldier, 
and  when  the  time  comes  I  will  shed  my  blood  for  my 
country." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  deplorable,"  cried  Benedict.  "  Paris  will  be 
taken,  when  if  she  had  been  otherwise  governed  she 
might  have  been  triumphant.  People  hearing  me  might 
accuse  me  of  want  of  patriotism.  Yet  God  knows  I  love 
France,  but  to  defend  a  city  leaders  are  wanted  as  well 
as  an  army.  A  struggle  to  the  death,  but  an  intelligent 
and  reasonable  one;  blood  must  flow  in  profusion,  but 
let  it  at  least  bring  forth  the  fruits  of  victory." 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  old  Colonel,"  who  would  count  the 
cost  if  victory  could  be  won  ?  But  unhappily,  as  it  now 
stands,  those  who  are  not  traitors  or  tuiger  only  for  their 


wmtmrn 


m 


r 


212 


IDOLS. 


own  ends,  are  incompetent.  France,  which  once  pos- 
sessed such  scores  of  famous  Readers,  has  still  many  brave 
and  devoted  generals,  but  not  one  of  that  calibre  who, 
appearing  in  a  great  national  crisis,  saves  a  country  by  the 
sole  power  of  his  genius.  Loyalty  is  not  always  sufficient. " 

"I  swear,"  cried  Benedict,  "  that  the  moment  they  show 
us  a  given  point  of  attack  with  the  word  '  Advance,'  I 
will  advance  without  troubling  myself  about  counter 
orders-  And  if  victory  is  not  for  us  I  shall  continue  to 
fight,  even  though  I  remain  alone  among  the  enemy,  and 
fall  to  rise  no  more." 

After  a  moment's  pause,  he  resumed  in  a  tone  of  deep 
bitterness, 

"  For  after  all  why  should  we  value  our  lives  so  much  ? 
We  have  left  fragments  of  our  hearts  on  so  many  bram- 
bles that  they  are  in  shreds.  To  survive  our  defeat  would 
be  the  most  terrible  of  all  our  misfortunes.  Having  no 
otlier  idol,  we  have  kept  that  of  military  glory.  We  smile 
with  gratified  pride  at  sight  of  our  flag.  A  stranger 
detects  the  note  of  haughty  joy  in  our  voices  when  we 
say,  'We  are  Frenchmen.'  If,  then,  we  must  renounce 
this  noble  pride,  hang  down  our  heads  and  descend  from 
our  rank  among  the  nations  with  agony  such  as  we  alone 
can  know,  then  I  say  better,  far  better,  to  lie  buried  in 
the  open  grave  of  our  country." 

"  Wrong,  Benedict,"  cried  Gildas,  "  wrong;  even  should 
the  military  glory  of  France  be  forever  tarnished— and 
of  that  we  need  not  despair— her  artistic  glory  will  still 
remain." 

At  this  moment  a  scout  arrived. 

"  Give  me  place  at  the  fire  and  a  mouthful  of  cognac," 
said  he. 

Room  was  made  for  him,  and  a  gourd  offered  him. 
When  he  had  somewhat  warmed  his  frozen  limbs,  he 
saM,  rubbing  his  hands, 
^«  Good  news,  my  lads,  we  fight  to-morrow." 


O 


ce,  which  once  pos- 
,  has  still  many  brave 
of  that  calibre  who, 
aves  a  country  by  the 
lot  always  sufficient. " 
»e  moment  they  show 
e  word  '  Advance,'  I 
yself  about  counter 
s  I  shall  continue  to 
nong  the  enemy,  and 

ed  In  a  tone  of  deep 

e  our  lives  so  much  ? 
:s  on  so  many  bram- 
rive  our  defeat  would 
artunes.  Having  no 
iry  glory.  We  smile 
ir  flag.  A  stranger 
our  voices  when  we 
,  we  must  renounce 
is  and  descend  from 
3ny  such  as  we  alone 
tter,  to  lie  buried  in 

'  wrong;  even  should 
ever  tarnished — and 
tistic  glory  will  still 


loathful  of  cognac," 

gourd  offered  him. 
lis  frozen  limbs,  he 

■morrow." 


THE  WAR. 


213 


"For a  certainty?" 

"  For  a  certainty !" 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  An  aide-de-camp  of  General  NoSl's." 

"Where?" 

"  At  Malmaison." 

"  Are  we  among  those  who  are  to  fight  ?" 

"  Yes,  all  of  us,  Franchetti's  Infantry,  the  Amis  de  la 
^     France,  and  every  one  has  sworn  to  fight  unto  death." 

"  Provided,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that  the  force  be  con- 
siderable." 

"  General  Noe'l  is  decided  upon  that  course." 

"  Yes,  but  those  above  General  Noel  ?" 

"  Well,"  cried  the  new-comer,  "  if  we  are  again  ordered 
to  desert  a  position  once  taken  I  will  break  my  sword, 
for  it  will  then  be  useless."  ^ 

"  No,"  cried  the  Colonel,  "  no  one  has  a  right  to  do 
that  now." 

"  But  if  we  are  driven  to  despair?" 

"  We  cannot  despair  of  God  nor  of  France." 

The  new-comer  then  proceeded  to  give  an  animated 
account  of  the  plan  of  action. 

The  little  gfroup  listened  with  feverish  interest. 

"  The  troops  for  the  assault  will  be  formed  into  three 
detachments,"  said  he,  "each  having  its  own  artillery. 
General  Berthaut  will  command  the  first,  marching  at 
the  head  with  3400  infantry,  sustained  by  a  squadron  of 
cavalry  and  twenty  pieces  of  ordnance." 

"  What  position  does  General  Berthaut  intend  to  oc- 
cupy ?"  asked  one  of  the  listeners. 

"  He  will  lie  between  the  St.  Germain  Railroad  and  the 
upper  part  of  the  village  of  Rueil." 

"  And  the  second  detachment  ?"  askvd  the  Colonel. 

"Will  be  commanded  by  Greneral  No'^1,"  answered  the 
scout. 

"At  last,"  cried  Benedict,  "our  turn  has  come." 


H 


M^i&LinsiiiJ:.-,aJ> 


214 


IDOLS. 


"  But  there  will  be  fewer  men  and  less  artillery  on  our 
side,  comrades,"  continued  the  scout. 

"  We  will  supply  the  want  of  both  by  redoubled  brav- 
ery," said  the  Colonel. 

"Thirteen  hundred  and  fifty  men  and  ten  cannon," 
said  the  scout. 

"Where  are  we  to  be  placed  ?"  asked  Benedict, 

"We  are  to  fill  up  the  ravine  stretching  between  St. 
Confians  and  Bougival,  and  force  the  park  of  Mal- 
maison." 

"Then  the  intention  is  to  dislodge  the  Prussians?" 

"To  the  last  one,"  answered  the  scout. 

The  Colonel  shook  his  head. 

"At  the  worst,"  he  said,  "we  know  how  to  die." 

"The  last  detachment,"  continued  the  new-comer, 
"under  the  command  of  Colonel  Cholleton,  will  consist 
of  sixteen  hundred  infantry." 

"  That  is  very  little,"  said  Benedict. 

"A  squadron  of  cavalry  will  take  up  its  position  in 
front  of  the  old  mill  above  Rueil,  and  unite  the  right 
flank  with  the  left." 

"  How  many  pieces  of  artillery  ?"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"Eighteen,  I  believe,"  answered  the  young  man. 
"  Moreover,  there  will  be  two  reserve  forces,  one  ranged 
to  the  left  under  General  Martinot,  and  consisting  of 
2600  infantry;  the  others  towards  the  centre  with  2000 
infantry,  two  squadrons  of  cavalry,  and  46  cannon  for 
the  whole  reserve." 

"  A  total,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  of  10,950  men,  4  squadrons 
of  cavalry  and  94  cannon." 

"  What  is  your  opinion.  Colonel  ?"  asked  Benedict. 

"  That  it  would  require,"  answered  the  Colonel,  "  four 
times  the  number  to  attain  such  a  result.  Ah  !  what  a 
disastrous  war." 

"Yes,"  cried  Benedict;  "the  great  and  chivalrous  bat- 


T 


id  less  artillery  on  our 

lUt. 

)th  by  redoubled  brav- 

len  and  ten  cannon," 

sked  Benedict, 
tretching  between  St. 
ce   the   park  of   Mal- 

ge  the  Prussians?" 
scout. 

ow  how  to  die." 
lued   the    new-comer, 
Cholleton,  will  consist 

ict. 

ike  up  its  position  in 

1,  and  unite  the  right 


"  asked  the  Colonel, 
ed  the  young  man. 
•ve  forces,  one  ranged 
tot,  and  consisting  of 
the  centre  with  2000 
y,  and  46  cannon  for 

0,950  men,  4  squadrons 

f"  asked  Benedict, 
ed  the  Colonel,  "four 
I  result.    Ah !  what  a 

at  and  chivalrous  bat- 


THE  WAR. 


ais 


ties  recorded  in  military  annals  were  not  such  as  this. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  real  fighting.  We  shoot  from 
a  hollow.  We  are  killed  by  a  distant  enemy  whom  we 
do  not  even  see,  and  fall  without  a  struggle  ingloriously. 
Bravery  in  the  present  meaning  of  the  word  is  the 
going  to  some  appointed  place,  and  as  our  comrades 
fall  closing  up  the  ranks.  But  that  does  not  stir 
the  blood,  Colonel,  as  of  old  when  it  meant  to  sustain, 
man  to  man,  the  enemy's  charge,  to  defend  the  ground 
foot  to  foot,  to  take  his  life  or  give  up  your  own,  to  feel, 
in  a  word,  that  frenzy  of  battle,  that  fever  of  the  blood 
and  of  the  brain  which  takes  from  our  view  all  but  the 
enemy,  and  leaves  no  sound  but  the  voice  which  urges 
us  '  Forward,  forward.* " 

"Brave  boy!"  cried  the  Colonel;  "you  feel  as  I  felt 
when  first  I  rushed  to  the  field.  My  first  vbattles  were 
like  festivals  to  me.  I  dreamed  of  glory — military  glory 
in  its  most  intoxicating  form.  No  feat  seemed  impossi- 
ble; if  one  step  higher,  an  order  or  decoration  repaid  my 
daring.  When  I  began  as  a  humble  soldier,  my  mind 
full  of  the  glorious  traditions  of  our  martial  past,  I  saw 
myself  in  anticipation  a  general  or  even  a  marshal  of 
France.  Had  not  names  more  obscure  than  mine  arisen 
to  popularity,  and  won  such  triumphs  ?  But  I  had  come 
tpo  late.  There  was  no  more  to  be  gained  in  conquered 
countries;  war  had  had  its  day.  Our  rapid  campaigns 
in  Russia,  China  and  Mexico  did  not  even  interest  the 
provinces.  Glory  was  all  very  well,  but  we  had  need  of 
rest.  People  began  to  ask  themselves  why  their  blood 
was  necessary  to  the  ambition  of  two  men.  I  scarcely 
believed  another  war  possible,  when  the  King  of  Prussia, 
invoking  the  God  of  armies  to  bless  his  arms,  set  foot 
upon  our  soil.  In  this  unequal  struggle  a  tremendous 
outburst  of  military  ardor  could  alone  save  us;  as  it  is, 
there  is  no  hope  for  us.    Ten  thousand  men  come  for< 


jiiiiiaiMMWii^^ 


3a33^"" 


216 


IDOLS. 


ward  where  a  hundred  thousand  are  required.  We  fight 
like  lions  and  do  not  win.  If  we  dislodge  a  Prussian 
troop  from  its  position,  the  black  adder  of  a  new  bat- 
talion replaces  the  first.  The  circle  of  fire  and  of  iron 
must  enclose  us,  and  we  shall  be  victims  sacrificed  to 
the  short-sightedness  and  incompetence  of  our  leaders. 
Meanwhile  let  us  fight — struggle — prove  that  we  value 
something  else  more  than  our  fortune,  and  if  Paris  must 
perish,  let  it  bury  us  in  its  ruins." 
A  sober  silence  followed  the  Colonel's  words. 
The  tactics  followed  by  the  generals  since  the  com- 
mencement of  the  war  proved  the  justice  of  his  reason- 
ing. Silently  and  sadly  the  men  gazed  absently  at  the 
fire,  the  warm  tints  of  which  glowed  upon  their  faces. 
No  sound  was  heard  save  the  measured  tread  of  the  sen- 
tries. Each  one  thought  of  all  he  held  dearest,  and  from 
the  depths  of  his  soul  bade  farewell  to  those  whom  in 
all  probability  he  would  see  no  more. 

"Boys,"  said  the  Colonel,  "follow  the  last  advice  of 
an  old  trooper;  wrap  yourselves  in  your  blankets,  and 
sleep  till  the  drums  awake  you  at  daybreak;  a  soldier 
should  be  In  good  condition  on  the  morning  of  a  battle." 
Gildas,  the  young  scout,  and  others  of  the  party  fol- 
lowed his  advice.  But  Benedict  did  not  move;  he  sat 
still  regarding  the  dying  light  of  the  watch-fire  till  it  was 
almost  extinguished,  when  he  rose  to  get  some  wood. 
The  wood  crackled  and  soon  leaped  into  a  flame.  The 
young  man,  drawing  a  note-book  from  his  pocket,  wrote 
by  the  light  of  the  fire  for  half  an  hour  with  feverish 
rapidity. 
His  last  thought  was  for  Sabine  PomereuL 
In  his  heart's  testament,  drawn  out  thus  on  the  eve  of 
battle  when  his  return  was  uncertain,  he  declared  to  her 
that,  in  despair  at  having  lost  her^  he  had  been  led  away 
from  the  path  she  had  traced  out  for  him  in  those  old. 


T 


e  required.  We  fight 
dislodge  a  Prussian 
adder  of  a  new  bat- 

e  of  fire  and  of  iron 
victims  sacrificed  to 

tence  of  our  leaders. 

-prove  that  we  value 

ne,  and  if  Paris  must 

mel's  words, 
erals  since  the  com- 
justice  of  his  reason- 
fazed  absently  at  the 
.red  upon  their  faces, 
ired  tread  of  the  sen- 
eld  dearest,  and  from 
U  to  those  whom  in 
e. 

>w  the  last  advice  of 

I  your  blankets,  and 

daybreak;  a  soldier 

noming  of  a  battle." 

lers  of  the  party  fol- 

id  not  move;  he  sat 

watch-fire  till  it  was 

to  get  some  wood. 

d  into  a  flame.    The 

>m  his  pocket,  wrote 

I  hour  with  feverish 

omereuL 

Jt  thus  on  the  eve  of 
n,  he  declared  to  her 
e  had  been  led  away 
for  him  in  those  old. 


THE  WAR. 


317 


happy  days.  He  begged  her  to  pardon  his  weakness, 
and  concluded  by  saying,  "I  am  going  to  fight  for 
France,  and  if  I  die,  the  ball  which  kills  me  will  do  me 
less  harm  than  your  rejection." 

As  if  soothed  by  her  memory  he  followed  the  example 
of  his  companions,  and  vrapping  himself  in  his  great- 
coat went  to  sleep.  He  awoke  at  the  sound  of  drums 
in  the  distance. 

All  trace  of  despondency  had  vanished  from  the  minds 
of  Benedict  and  his  companions.  They  were  going  to 
battle.  It  was  one  against  three,  but  what  did  it  matter  ? 
they  never  gave  it  a  thought.  They  all  could  remember 
battles  won  against  greater  odds. 

The  enemy  was  intrenched  at  Malmaison.  They  had 
to  carry  the  place  by  assault. 

After  all  it  was  a  hand-to-hand  fight  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet;  it  was  to  shoot  down  with  rifle  balls,  or 
break  heads  with  the  butt  end  of  muskets;  and  this  point 
gained,  to  descend  like  an  avalanche  upon  the  bulk  of 
the  enemy,  to  make  a  gap  at  any  cost,  and  so  break  the 
iron  chain  which  was  enclosing  Paris. 

O  brave,  beautiful,  heroic  youth!  When  we  behold 
those  improvised  soldiers  already  inured  to  the  hardships 
of  camp  life,  we  can  understand  how  culpable  were  the 
chiefs  who  did  not  profit  by  such  valor.  The  Colonel 
himself  was  no  longer  the  cold  speculator  of  the  evening 
previous,  the  judge  of  a  party  whose  adversaries  he 
measured,  and  whose  strokes  he  counted  in  anticipation. 
The  roll  of  drums,  the  clank  of  arms,  the  neighing  of 
horses,  the  sight  of  muskets,  and,  above  all,  of  the  flag 
which  they  were  to  follow  and  to  defend,  reanimated  the 
old  hero  of  the  Russian  and  African  campaigns. 

At  some  distance  were  seen  the  great  vehicles,  sur- 
mounted by  the  white  flag  marked  with  a  red  cross,  in- 
dicating that  the  International  Aid  Society  was  ready  to 


i'; 

It 


mm 


m 


wmm 


2l8 


IDOLS. 


play  its  humane  part.  Priests  passed  through  th?  ranks, 
grave  and  recollected,  now  giving  to  one  soldier  their 
blessing,  to  another  some  advice,  or  distributing  medals 
and  scapulars,  the  shields  of  faith  which,  if  they  did  not 
guarantee  against  wounds,  at  least  preserved  the  wearers 
from  despair  and  unbelief.  Occasionally  a  soldier  was 
seen  to  call  a  priest  aside  to  a  deserted  part  of  the  camp, 
to  kneel  and  receive  absolution  for  his  sins,  and  rise  with 
a  more  sublime  and  resolute  courage  in  his  face.  There 
was  no  singinnr  or  laughing,  jokes  attempted  fell  on 
unresponsive  ears.  They  waited  the  signal  for  depart- 
ure. General  Noel  appeared,  passed  the  men  rapidly 
in  review,  and  cried  "  Forward  !" 

The  wheels  of  the  artillery  sounded  on  the  road,  the 
flags  were  unfurled,  the  standards  floated  to  the  wind, 
and  the  soldiers  marched  with  a  buoyant  tread  inspired 
by  their  eagerness  for  battle. 

This  handful  of  men,  for  they  were  only  1300,  had 
sworn  to  do  marvels.  During  the  march  no  word  was 
exchanged  save  oaths  of  mutual  protection  in  case  of 
danger.  None  were  strangers  to  each  other  in  the  hour 
of  battle.  Men  became  brothers  as  readily  as  if  they 
were  upon  the  brink  of  the  grave.  At  length  General 
Noel's  troop  arrived  at  the  ravine  of  St.  Conflans,  in 
sight  of  the  park  of  Malmaison.  General  Noel  was  soon 
joined  by  General  Berthaut.  It  was  about  one  in  the 
afternoon.  All  at  once  the  artillery  opened  a  furious  fire. 
The  soldiers  could  distinguish  nothing  amid  this  hurricane 
of  iron.  The  smell  of  powder  in .  igorated  them.  But  the 
infantry  was  forced  to  remain  inactive,  blinded  by  the 
smoke  of  the  artillery,  and  unable  to  discern  the  position 
which  they  were  to  carry.  Eagerly  they  awaited  the 
cessation  of  firing  to  take  pa.rt  in  the  action.  At  length, 
at  an  order  from  General  Noel,  the  infantry  advanced, 
crawling  upon  the  earth,  concealing  themselves  in  the 


THE  WAR. 


SI9 


sed  through  thf  ranks, 

g  to  one  soldier  their 

}r  distributing  medals 

which,  if  they  did  not 

preserved  the  wearers 

sionally  a  soldier  was 

:rted  part  of  the  camp, 

his  sins,  and  rise  with 

ige  in  his  face.     There 

:es  attempted  fell   on 

the  signal  for  depart- 

ssed  the  men  rapidly 

nded  on  the  road,  the 
i  floated  to  the  wind, 
>uoyant  tread  inspired 

were  only  1300,  had 

e  march  no  word  was 

protection  in  case  of 

pach  other  in  the  hour 

as  readily  as  if  they 
At  length  General 
e  of  St.  Conflans,  in 
reneral  NoSl  was  soon 
ivas  about  one  in  the 
Y  opened  a  furious  Are. 
ing  amid  this  hurricane 
[orated  them.  But  the 
active,  blinded  by  the 
to  discern  the  position 
riy  they  awaited  the 
he  action.  At  length, 
he  infantry  advanced, 
ng  themselves  in  the 


iiiuhilations  of  the  ground  or  behind  the  walls  or  shrub- 
bery, their  ears  on  the  alert,  their  muskets  !<  aded,  till 
tliey  had  approached  the  object  in  view — Malmaison. 
The  park  was  full  of  Prussians  who  had  thrown  up 
therein  gigantic  works.  Groups  of  soldiers  had  taken 
shelter  behind  the  crenelated  walls.  From  every  loop- 
hole death  came  swift  and  terrible  upon  the  soldiers  who 
were  to  storm  the  intrenchment.  It  is  true  the  fire  of 
artillery  occupied  the  enemy,  and  covered  the  French 
whilst  they  carried  out  General  Noel's  plan.  But  at  a 
given  signal  the  artillery  instantaneously  ceased  firing, 
and  the  troops  advanced  with  admirable  valor.  Little 
time  sufficed  for  them  to  gain  the  ravine  which  leads 
downwards  from  the  stream  of  St.  Cucufa  to  the  Ameri- 
can railroad  intersecting.  Malmaison.  The  left  flank 
under  General  Noel  passed  the  ravine  with  wonderful 
impetuosity,  and  climbed  the  heights  leading  to  La 
Jonch^re.  As  they  pursued  their  way  a  terrible  volley 
of  musketry  burst  from  the  woods  and  the  houses.  The 
Prussians  had  taken  up  position  in  spite  of  the  fire  of 
artillery,  and  it  seemed  impossible  to  brave  that  storm 
of  balls  and  musketry. 

"  Well,"  cried  Benedict,  turning  to  his  comrades,  "  are 
we  to  remain  here  ?" 

"  How  can  we  go  on  ?"  asked  another. 

"  You  see  that  even  the  General  hesitates,"  said  Gildas. 

"But  there  is  no  hesitation  for  me,  I  swear,"  cried 
Benedict;  "  if  they  cry,  Go  back,  I  will  go  forward.  I 
came  to  fight  and  fight  I  will.  If  I  am  afterwards  ac- 
cused of  want  of  discipline,  so  be  it.  Who  has  a  right 
to  care  for  our  lives  if  not  ourselves  ?" 

Benedict  was  not  mistaken;  the  General,  seeing  that 
his  troops  would  be  cut  to  pieces  by  the  enemy,  gave  the 
order  to  retreat;  the  soldiers  hesitated,  and  would,  per^ 
haps,  have  obeyed,  when  the  Colonel  cried, 


220 


JOLS. 


"  Boys,  let  all  who  love  me  follow  me.  We  will  join 
the  others  above !" 

An  electric  thrill  was  felt  In  the  ranks;  a  hundred 
young  soldiers  sprang  forward,  and  rushing  through  fire 
and  smoke,  disappeared  from  the  gaze  of  their  compan- 
ions, going  over  the  ground  with  incredible  rapidity. 
Ten  of  them  fell  in  this  rapid  ascent.  Alas  !  none  could 
stop  to  raise  them.  They  were  constantly  under  fire, 
and  they  could  not  pause  a  moment  till  they  had  effected 
a  junction  with  the  Zouaves  of  the  brave  commander 
Jacquot.  It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see  him  among  those 
bronzed  soldiers,  brave  as  lions,  rushing  on  to  the  com- 
bat, dashing  against  the  crenelated  walls  of  the  park, 
like  a  tremendous  wave  dashing  against  the  rock  as  if 
to  uproot  it. 

The  shots  came,  they  could  scarce  perceive  whence. 
Those  who  fell  served  as  ladders  to  the  others.  It  was 
a  terrible  but  withal  a  beautiful  sight. 

The  Zouaves,  collected  in  the  angle  formed  by  the  park 
of  Malmaison,  below  La  Jonch^re,  performed  prodigies 
of  valor,  and  notwithstanding  the  bristling  breastworks, 
notwithstanding  the  cannon  pointed  through  each  em- 
brasure, effected  a  breach  and  leaped  resolutely  into  the 
park.  A  fearful  conflict  ensued.  Hand  to  hand,  tooth 
and  nail,  they  fought;  heads  were  used  for  battering  rams, 
bayonets  for  poniards,  the  butt  ends  of  muskets  for  bat- 
tle-axes. The  Prussians,  ten  times  more  numerous  than 
the  Zouaves,  rushed  upon  the  handful  of  valiant  men 
who,  intrenching  themselves  against  the  walls,  fought  a 
terrible,  furious,  desperate  fight,  strewing  the  ground  with 
corpses.  The  fusillade  had  just  ceased  in  the  park  when 
by  the  widening  breach  rushed  in  the  troops  of  which 
Benedict,  Gildas  and  the  Colonel  formed  part.  At  last 
their  desire  was  accomplished.  The  struggle  was  a  per- 
sonal one  and  terrible  in  the  extreme;  they  measured 


THE  WAR. 


aai 


low  me.     We  will  join 

the  ranks;  a  hundred 
id  rushing  through  fire 
gaze  of  their  compan- 
th  incredible  rapidity, 
nt.  Alas  !  none  could 
constantly  under  fire, 
It  till  they  had  effected 
the  brave  commander 
)  see  him  among  those 
ushing  on  to  the  corn- 
ed walls  of  the  park, 
against  the  rock  as  if 

arce  perceive  whence, 
to  the  others.  It  was 
Bfht. 

gle  formed  by  the  park 
:,  performed  prodigies 
bristling  breastworks, 
ted  through  each  em- 
>ed  resolutely  into  the 
Hand  to  hand,  tooth 
sed  for  battering  rams, 
ds  of  muskets  for  bat- 
s  more  numerous  than 
tndful  of  valiant  men 
1st  the  walls,  fought  a 
ewing  the  ground  with 
ased  in  the  park  when 
1  the  troops  of  which 
formed  part.  At  last 
lie  struggle  was  a  per- 
reme;  they  measured 


themselves  against  the  enemy;  the  fury  of  battle,  the 
thirst  for  vengeance,  and,  above  all,  the  heroic  feeling  of 
defending  their  native  land,  took  from  them  all  thought 
save  that  of  victory,  even  though  it  was  at  the  cost  of 
their  blood.  Gildas  forgot  that  he  had  written  pages 
which  gave  promise  that  he  would  become  a  first-class 
writer;  Benedict  forgot  his  glory  as  a  sculptor,  and  the 
Colonel  his  old  bitterness.  They  had  but  one  thought, 
that  they  were  Frenchmen,  brothers,  heroes,  exposing 
their  lives  as  a  last  rampart  against  the  blows  of  the 
enemy.  Gildas,  carried  away  by  his  valor,  had  become 
detached  from  his  comrades,  and  was  assailed  by  a  score 
of  Prussians,  defending  himself  bravely  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet,  or  beating  about  him  with  the  end  of  his 
musket,  breaking  heads  and  wrists  alike,  and  dealing 
death  about  him.  But  vigorous  as  he  wa»  he  became 
exhausted;  several  weapons  were  directed  against  him, 
and  the  young  man  fell,  uttering  one  cry. 

"  Benedict,  help !" 

The  appeal  was  answered. 

"  I  am  here,  brother  !" 

With  a  bayonet  in  each  hand  and  a  third  between  his 
teeth  Benedict  sprang  to  his  assistance,  wounding  right 
and  left  with  his  triangular  weapon.  Blood  flowed  freely; 
howls  of  pain  mingled  with  threats  of  vengeance.  The 
whole  rage  of  the  Prussians  was  turned  against  the  sculp- 
tor. Gildas  rose  at  first  upon  one  knee,  then  upon  both, 
and  at  last,  getting  upon  his  feet,  hurried  to  Benedict's 
side,  for  he  in  his  generous  ardor  had  rushed  into  the 
very  midst  of  his  assailants. 

That  was  not  a  battle,  it  was  a  massacre.  Zouaves, 
infantry,  volunteers,  all  performed  prodigies  of  heroism, 
crushing  the  enemy  against  the  walls  of  the  park  of  which 
it  had  made  a  fortress.  Ic  was  one  of  those  incidental 
feats  not  mentioned  by  generals  in  their  reports  because 


liw^fiMfMifiiMiii^ 


--i/'V«>S»'..  Jit.'. 


222 


IDOLS. 


not  witnesscfl  by  them,  but  which  remain  in  the  tnenuu y 
of  all  who  have  followed  the  history  of  that  epoch  ot 
patriotism. 

The  Prussians,  despairing  of  being  able  to  hold  the 
position,  abandoned  it  hastily.  The  Zouaves  remained  in 
possession.  In  the  heat  of  the  battle  Benedict  saw  their 
commander  Jacquot  totter,  struck  by  a  ball.  He  rushed 
to  his  assistance,  supported  him,  and  at  length  succeeded 
in  bringing  him  to  a  sheltered  spot,  where  in  a  hollow  of 
the  ground  he  laid  him.  Benedict  returned  to  the  field. 
To  him  the  victory  seemed  incomplete;  it  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  have  driven  the  enemy  from  their  position,  but 
to  pursue  them.  Victory  had  declared  for  France,  but 
the  advantage  must  be  preserved.  As  they  looked 
around  them  how  many  of  the  comrades  did  they  per- 
ceive dead  and  wounded  before  their  eyes  ! 

The  order  for  departure  was  given. 

What !  abandon  this  formidable  position  which  they 
had  so  hardly  won !  Their  assault  then  was  in  vain, 
was  but  a  gross  insult  to  these  brave  men,  a  bloody 
mockery  of  noble  sentiments.  Again  had  men  been  sent 
to  die,  to  rally  the  others,  and  to  be  ordered  back  to  the 
city ! 

Benedict  felt  his  blood  boil  at  the  very  thought. 

"My  friends,"  said  he  to  his  companions,  "this  is 
shameful  treachery;  to  return  to  Paris  now  is  to  break 
cur  oath.  We  are  soldiers,  it  is  true,  but  volunteer  sol- 
diers; the  heroes  of  to-day  and  perchance  the  martyrs  of 
to>morrow,  not  men  from  whom  discipline  has  taken 
away  all  idea  of  thinking  for  themselves.  W«  may  be 
rash,  perhaps,  and  insubordinate,  but  we  will  not  go 
back." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  twenty  voices. 

The  bugles  sounded,  the  drums  beat  a  retreat 

"  Forward !"  cried  Benedict 


i*»,;*S8«»iWls; 


T 


THli  WAR. 


«as 


remain  in  the  mcnKuy 
story  of  that  epoch  ot 

)cing  able  to  hold  the 
fie  Zouaves  remained  in 
ttle  Benedict  saw  tiicir 

by  a  ball.  He  rushed 
ind  at  length  succeeded 
>t,  where  in  a  hollow  of 
t  returned  to  the  field, 
iplete;  it  was  not  suffi- 
rom  their  position,  but 
dared  for  France,  but 
ed.  As  they  looked 
:omrades  did  they  per- 
leir  eyes ! 
^en. 

,e  position  which  they 
lult  then  was  in  vain, 

brave  men,  a  bloody 
ain  had  men  been  sent 
be  ordered  back  to  the 

le  very  thought, 
companions,  "this  is 
Paris  now  is  to  break 
true,  but  volunteer  sol- 
rchance  the  martyrs  of 
1  discipline  has  taken 
mselves.  W«  may  be 
!,  but  we  will  not  go 


beat  a  retreat 


And  with  his  group  of  friends  he  rushed  in  pursuit  of 
the  Prussians.  On  went  the  latter  heedless  of  death, 
unconscious  of  wounds,  scarce  pausing  to  note  those  who 
fell  from  fatigue,  and  whom  they  trampled  under  foot. 
Their  panic  carried  them  across  the  park,  and  already 
hud  they  leaped  the  enclosure,  when  the  arrival  of  a 
large  force  of  their  own  troops  changed  the  whole  aspect 
of  affairs.  With  this  unlooked-for  help  their  courage 
revived.  The  little  band  of  Frenchmen,  carried  away  by 
their  ardor,  waited  for  no  help.  Alone  in  the  midst  of 
that  immense  park  full  of  threatening  shadows,  believing 
the  victory  already  theirs,  they  suddenly  found  them- 
selves nut  alone  obliged  to  fight  the  battle  over  to  ensure 
victory,  but  to  fight  and  to  die  without  hope  of  deliver- 
ance. The  Colonel,  Gildas,  Benedict,  and  their  com- 
panions found  themselves  in  an  instant  surrounded  by 
Prussians.  They  bethought  themselves  then  of  that  im- 
mortal battalion  which,  at  Waterloo,  held  the  Engl'sh  in 
check  till  the  last  of  the  heroes  had  fallen,  stricken  unto 
death;  ?nd  with  the  promptitude  which  sprang  from  their 
imminent  peril,  they  form'ed  a  solid  g^oup  and  faced  the 
enemy,  ready  to  die,  but  not  unavenged. 

So  proud  and  warlike  was  their  aspect  that  the  Prus- 
sians saw  at  once  the  victory  would  not  be  an  easy  one. 
They  could  no  longer  fight  with  the  musket,  so  that  the 
sabre  or  bayonet  was  all  that  remained  to  these  cham- 
pions of  death.  Poor  Gildas,  wounded  in  the  right  arm, 
fought  with  the  left;  a  blow  from  a  musket  felled  him  to 
the  earth.  Benedict  with  two  of  his  comrades  was  fight- 
ing still,  but  he  received  a  dangerous  wound  upon  the 
head,  and  fell  in  his  turn  upon  a  heap  of  dead. 

That  was  the  end  of  their  heroic  struggle.  The  Prus- 
sians disappeared  during  the  night.  Whilst  they  evacu- 
ated the  park  two  infantry  men  who  were  only  slightly 
wounded  rose,  and  groping  their  way  in  the  darkness 


iiigi»-(i«iaiMipift^^ 


224 


XDOLS. 


siimmoncd  up  all  their  strength,  seeking  egress  from 
the  park,  and  perhaps  a  place  in  an  ambulance  wagon. 
They  hoped  to  have  litters  sent  for  such  of  their  com- 
panivins  as  were  still  alive.  Doubtless  there  must  be  as 
many  wounded  as  dead  among  the  heaps  of  motionless 
forms  upon  the  field.  But,  if  these  young  men's  courage 
was  great,  their  exhaustion  was  great.  Weary  and 
bleeding  freely  profusely  from  wounds  hastily  staunched, 
they  could  scarcely  keep  upon  their  feet.  The  way  was 
strewn  with  heaps  of  corpses,  forming  terrible  fu  .  vs 
on  the  ground.  Ever  and  anon  from  some  hollow  in 
the  earth,  or  a  heap  of  wounded,  rose  a  plaintive  moan: 
some  unfortunate  asking  help,  a  dying  soldier  craving  a 
drop  of  water  to  eas'j  the  sufferings  which  death  was 
soon  to  end.  The  two  men  were  losing  hope  both  for 
themselves  and  their  unfortunate  comrades;  not  a  lantern 
glimmered  before  them;  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  all 
was  darkness;  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  heavy 
tread  of  the  retreating  French  forces  who,  more  discour- 
aged than  ever,  cursed  in  their  hearts  the  infatuation  or 
worse  of  those  who  had  ordered  a  retceat. 

The  two  soldiers  felt  that  soon  they  themselves  would 
have  to  lie  down  and  die. 

All  at  once  they  saw  a  glimmer  of  light  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

A  dark  figure  soon  became  dimly  perceptible;  it  seemed 
to  stoop  every  moment  and  rise  again,  no  doubt  examin- 
ing the  faces  of  the  dead,  who, 'with  features  distorted  by 
agony,  and  thefr  useless  weapons  still  clenched  in  their 
stiffened  hands,  called  Heaven,  as  it  were,  to  witness  their 
defeat.  A  simultaneous  cry  for  help  escaped  from  the  two 
soldiers.  Guided  by  their  voices  the  figure  and  the  light 
began  to  advance  in  their  direction,  slowly,  indeed,  for 
the  heaps  of  dead  constantly  barred  the  passage;  the  man 
stumbled  over  corpses  and  his  feet  slipped  in  the  blood, 


tMBWMIftWMflWWjiwaflitiWJiiiia 


seeking  egress  from 
in  ambulance  wagon, 
ir  such  of  their  com- 
less  there  must  be  as 
!  heaps  of  motionless 
young  men's  courage 
great.      Weary  and 
ids  hastily  staunched, 
ir  feet.     The  way  was 
ning  terrible  fu    -".vs 
from  some  hollow  in 
rose  a  plaintive  moan: 
ying  soldier  craving  a 
ngs  which  death  was 
losing  hope  both  for 
imrades;  not  a  lantern 
e  eye  could  reach  all 
heard  but  the  heavy 
es  who,  more  discour- 
Tts  the  infatuation  or 
retceat. 
hey  themselves  would 

if  of  light  in  the  dis* 

perceptible;  it  seemed 
ain,  no  doubt  examin- 
1  features  distorted  by 
itill  clenched  in  their 
t  were,  to  witness  their 
}  escaped  from  the  two 
ke  figure  and  the  light 
on,  flowly,  indeed,  for 
the  passage;  the  man 
slipped  in  the  blood, 


THE  WAR, 


995 


delaying  his  difficult  progress.  As  he  came  near  the 
others  saw  him  distinctly  by  the  light  of  the  lantern.  In 
its  pale  and  tremulous  rays  he  had  somewhat  the  appear* 
ance  of  a  supernatural  being.  A  red  scar  showed  with 
cruel  distinctness  on  the  marble  white  of  his  face,  and 
gave  a  sort  of  sublimity  to  the  incomparable  sweetness 
of  its  expression.  The  whole  figure  resembled  those  of 
the  martyrs,  who,  like  their  Divine  Master,  received  a 
crown  of  thorns,  or  were  seared  with  red  hot  irons.  A 
bluck  robe,  caught  up  a  little  in  the  broad  sash  so  as  not 
to  impede  his  motion,  enveloped  the  tall  figure.  A  cru- 
cifix hung  at  his  wrist,  and  a  Geneva  Cross  was  distinctly 
visible  upon  the  sleeve  of  nis  cassock. 

"You  are  a  priest,"  said  one  of  the  soldiers;  "are  you 
alone  ?" 

"  Yes  !" 

"  Are  there  any  ambulance  wagons  near  by  ?" 

"  The  ambulance  wagons  of  .the  International  Aid  are 
crowded  with  the  dying,  and  every  litter  is  also  in  use. 
Where  are  the  wounded  wjiom  you  wish  to  succor  ?" 

"Alas!  we  do  not  know,"  said  they,  "we  can  only  hope 
that  our  comrades  are  not  all  dead." 

"Come,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  have  two  arms, and  ran  at 
least  save  one  poor  fellow.  Bring  me  to  where  I  can  be 
of  use." 

After  a  fatiguing  walk  they  brought  him  into  the 
park,  now  transformed  into  a  vast  cemetery.  Those 
who  had  fallen  in  the  first  struggle  were  stiff  and  cold; 
the  victims  of  the  more  recent  one  were  still  warm  with 
life.  It  was  a  fearful  task,  this  searching  among  the 
dead.  The  three  men  constantly  paused  and  knelt  upon 
the  ground,  seeking,  by  the  wan  light  of  the  lantern,  for 
the  faintest  motion  of  heart  or  pulse.  Alas!  all  whom 
they  thus  examined  were  dead. 

Among  a  heap  of  corpses,  i.iany  of  whom  seemed  bv 


^nn  B 


■MiMMiiliilfi^^ 


226 


IDOLS. 


their  uniform  to  be  foemen  who  had  fallen  by  his  hand, 
lay  a  young  man,  the  heaving  of  whose  chest  showed 
that  iife  was  not  yet  extinct.  His  breast  was  torn  open 
by  a  wound  more  ghastly  than  deep.  His  face  was 
covered  with  a  mask  of  blood  flowing  from  a  gash  upon 
the  forehead.  He  was  breathing,  indeed,  but  could  they 
hope  that  he  would  survive  being  carried  to  a  distance? 
Another  wounded  man  attracted  their  attention  by 
his  groans.  At  length  he  managed  to  raise  himself,  cry- 
ing wildly,  "  A  second  retreat  is  commanded.  Oh,  the 
cowards,  the  traitors!" 

It  was  the  Colonel,  who  had  taken  up  again  his  old 
grief  and  hatred  with  the  breath  of  returr  ing  life. 

He  supported  himself  on  his  left  arm,  but  when  he 
attempted  to  use  the  other,  he  muttered,  "  My  shoulder 
is  broken." 

One  of  the  soldiers  made  a  sling  out  of  his  handker- 
chief, and  said  to  the  veteran,  "  Can  you  stand  ?" 
"  I  think  so,"  answered  the  Colonel. 
"  Soldiers,"  said  the  priest,  who  had  raised  the  other 
wounded  man  as  tenderly  as  a  mother  lifts  her  child, 
"  I  will  take  charge  of  this  one.  Let  us  go.  If  possible 
we  will  return  when  we  leave  these  two  hi  a  place  of 
safety." 

The  weaker  of  the  two  infantry  men  went  on  before, 
carrying  the  lantern,  the  other  supported  the  Colonel, 
the  priest  bringing  up  the  rear  with  the  wounded  man, 
whose  two  arms  fell  heavily  over  the  priest's  shoulder, 
and  whose  rigid  figure  had  every  appearance  of  death. 
No  one  spoke.  A  sigh  from  the  wounded  man,  or  a  groan 
from  the  Colonel  alone  broke  the  silence.  Ever  and 
anon  the  little  group  paused  to  take  breath,  and  bravely 
resumed  its  march. 

Providence  came  to  their  assistance!  A  wagon  rolled 
by.     They  called  out,  and  were  answered;  it  was  the 


THE  WAR. 


227 


lad  fallen  by  his  hand, 
f  whose  chest  showed 
J  breast  was  torn  open 
deep.  His  face  was 
ving  from  a  gash  upon 
indeed,  but  could  they 
carried  to  a  distance? 
ed  their  attention  by 
d  to  raise  himself,  cry- 
commanded.     Oh,  the 

ken  up  again  his  old 
if  returr  ing  life, 
eft  arm,  but  when  he 
uttered,  "  My  shoulder 

af  out  of  his  handker- 
m  you  stand  ?" 
mel. 

had  raised  the  other 
lother  lifts  her  child, 
Let  us  go.  If  possible 
:se  two  hi  a  place  of 

men  went  on  before, 
upported  the  Colonel, 
ith  the  wounded  man, 

the  priest's  shoulder, 
appearance  of  death, 
unded  man,  or  a  groan 
le  silence.  Ever  and 
ce  breath,  and  bravely 

nee.     A  wagon  rolled 
answered;  it  was  the 


I 


ambulance  belonging  to  the  Theatre  Italien.  It  received 
them  all  five.  The  two  brave  infantry  men  were  almost 
as  pale  and  exhausted  as  those  they  had  rescued;  but 
the  flask  offered  to  them  revived  them  considerably. 

"Where  am  I  to  leave  these  wounded  men,  sir.?"  said 
the  head  of  the  ambulance  corps. 

"  In  the  Rue  de  la  Chauss6e  d'Antin,  No.  15,"  answered 
the  priest. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  at  night  when  the  wagon 
stopped  its  burden  at  the  place  indicated  by  the  priest, 
•fhe  doors  of  the  house  were  immediately  thrown  open, 
and  men  came  out  carrying  the  wounded  in  with  inde- 
scribable care  and  tenderness,  and  placing  them  in  a  large 
;ipartment  on  the  ground  floor.  A  young  girl  dressed  in 
Dlack,  except  for  a  white  nurse's  apron  and  a  red  cross 
on  her  arm,  advanced  pale  and  anxious.      ^ 

"You  have  just  come  from  the  battle-field,  brother?" 
said  she. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  priest;' "  and  I  have  brought  two 
wounded  men,  an  old  and  a  young  one.  The  latter  is 
quite  irrecognizable  on  account  of  the  blood." 

He  was  instantly  laid  upon  a  bed,  and  the  young  girl 
approached  with  a  fine  sponge,  warm  water  and  soft 
linen  bandages.  His  breathing  was  inaudible,  and  it  al- 
most seemed  that  his  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  The 
young  nurse  gently  bathed  the  wound  upon  the  fore- 
head, separated  the  hair,  and  washed  away  the  dreadful 
clots  of  blood;  the  face  was  once  more  visible,  though 
disfigured  and  pallid,  and  with  closed  eyes.  The  girl 
paused  in  her  task  and  trembled,  drew  back  with  dilated 
eyes,  and  cried  out  in  a  tone  of  horror, 

"Sulpice,  Sulpice,  it  is  Benedict  whom  you  have 
brought  to  me  dying !" 

Her  courage  and  her  heart  failed  her  at  once.  She 
was  but  a  woman,  and  she  forgot  that  she  was  just  then 


i* 


^<«&M&SII^^ 


228 


IDOLS. 


the  only  nurse  in  the  house.    A  word  from  Sulpice  re- 
called her  to  her  mission. 

"God  is  witness,"  said  he,  "that  I  did  not  recognize 
him  when  I  raised  him  in  my  arms  on  the  field.  He  is  a 
guest  whom  God  has  sent  us,  Sabine,  forget  everything 
else." 

Sabine  pressed  her  brother's  hand. 

"  I  will  do  my  duty,"  said  she,  "and  if  our  Lord  thinks 
I  have  suffered  enough  He  will  save  Benedict." 

When  the  doctor  came  next  morning  to  visit  the 
wounded  he  declared  the  Colonel's  wound  to  be  slight. 
but  pausing  before  Benedict  shook  his  head. 

"Take  good  care  of  him,  Mademoiselle,  but  in  any  case 
the  poor  boy  will  look  at  you  many  a  day  before  he  sees 
you,  and  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice  for  long  before  he 
understands.  Do  you  know  him  ?"  asked  the  physician 
quickly. 

"  He  was  my  father's  pupil  and  my  betrothed,  Bene- 
dict Fougerais." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  doctor,  "  art  has  done  its  share  in  this 
fatal  war.  Cavelier,  the  author  of  '  Penelope,'  was  killed ; 
Leroux  is  mortally  wounded;  Vebert  may  never  again 
handle  the  brush,  and  Benedict  Fougerais  can  only  be 
saved  by  a  miracle." 

So  saying  the  doctor  went  away  full  of  grief  and 
emotion. 


THE  TWO   BROTHERS. 


229 


word  from  Sulpice  re- 
al I  did  not  recognize 
s  on  the  field.  He  is  a 
bine,  forget  everything 

id. 

and  if  our  Lord  thinks 

/e  Benedict." 

morning  to  visit   the 

*s  wound  to  be  slight. 

c  his  head. 

loiselle,  but  in  any  case 

ly  a  day  before  he  sees 

^ice  for  long  before  he 

"  asked  the  physician 

[  my  betrothed,  Bene- 

5  done  its  share  in  this 
'  Penelope,'  was  killed; 
t)ert  may  never  again 
ougerais  can  only  be 

ray  full  of  grief  and 


t^ 


V 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Two  Brothers. 

Sabine's  grief  at  sight  of  her  betrothed  exceeded  her 
strength.  She  was  as  pale  as  Benedict  himself.  Her 
eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears;  sobs  shook  her  frame;  her 
knees  bent  under  her;  she  fell  prostrate,  her  face  hidden 
upon  the  bed. 

Sulpice  found  her  thus. 

"  Sabine,"  he  said  "  the  greater  the  duty  the  more  need  of 
courage.  You  should  rather  thank  God  that  He  permits 
you  to  nurse  Benedict  and  perhaps  save  his  life."  These 
words  roused  the  young  girl  from  her  let^hargy;  she  re- 
covered her  composure,  and  with  a  hasty  but  fervent 
prayer  for  Benedict  and  herself  set'about  her  task.  After 
a  time  the  wounded  man  began  to  show  signs  of  life;  but 
though  his  eyes  opened  and  fixed  themselves  upon  Sabine, 
he  knew  her  not.  Fever  had  set  iu,  and  in  his  delirium 
he  went  over  all  the  details  of  that  terrible  struggle.  He 
was  gentle  and  docile  as  an  infant,  however.  He  even 
smiled  and  seemed  grateful  for  the  care  of  which  he 
vaguely  felt  he  was  the  object,  but  he  was  not  conscious 
of  the  presence  of  his  betrothed,  and  in  his  wanderings 
spoke  of  some  one  whom  he  called  Sabine,  but  so  vaguely 
that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  whether  he  had  his 
own  Sabine  in  mind,  or  the  daughter  of  Erwin  de  Stein- 
bach.  Days  and  nights  passed  and  still  Sabine  per- 
formed her  manifold  duties,  bravely  setting  aside  her 
own  consuming  grief.  As  often  as  possible  she  found 
time  to  visit  the  hapless  Xavier  at  the  prison  of  Ro- 
quette.  His  heart  was  not  yet  softened  by  his  captivity. 
The  sentence  which  had  fallen  on  him,  despite  his  inno- 


iffmm 


mmmim 


230 


IDOLS. 


cence,  did  not  lead  him  contrite  to  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 
Cursing  the  injustice  of  men,  he  liiccwise  cursed  what  he 
called  the  injustice  of  God. 

The  chaplain  of  the  prison  vainly  tried  to  calm  and 
console  him.  The  very  sight  of  a  cassock  aroused  his 
anger.  In  his  hatred  for  Sulpice  he  included  all  who  wore 
the  same  dress,  and  spoke  to  him  of  the  same  Saviour. 
Too  bad  a  Catholic  to  understand  the  dread  mystery 
which  enshrouds  Confession,  he  would  fain  have  had  his 
bro  her  betray  its  secret,  forgetting  that  he  had  doubted 
a  hundr«d  times  of  the  absolute  secrecy  of  priests. 

Sabine's  visits  calmed  him  for  the  moment,  but  these 
brief  interludes  were  usually  embittered  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  Sulpice.     He  poured  out  all  his  venom  and  bitter- 
ness, and  the  poor  girl  felt  powerless  to  console  him. 
Far  from  calling  religion  to  his  aid,  he  dwelt  forever  on 
the  recollections  of  a  vanished  past.     Now  he  was  at  a 
gambling  table  with  its  heaps  of  banknotes  or  piles  of 
glittering  gold;  again  he  was  at  some  luxurious  board, 
at  a  theatrical  performance,  or  listening  from  his  stall 
to  the  impassioned  strains  of  Don  Giovanni,  Favorita  or 
La  Juive.     Overcome  by  these  memories,  and  contrast- 
ing the  past  with  his  present  state,  he  began  to  think  of 
suicide.     He  hesiuted,  however,  not  through  any  great- 
ness of  soul  or  faith  in  God,  but  for  fear  of  physical  suf- 
fering, of  which  he  had  an  inordinate  dread.     Besides, 
there  was  no  hurry.     As  long  as  they  left  him  at  Roquette 
life  was  endurable.     But  he  resolved  that  the  moment 
they  spoke  of  New  Caledonia  he  would  manage  to  de- 
stroy himself,  even  if  he  had  to  dash  out  his  brains  against 
the  wall.     During  the  bloody  reign  of  the  Commune 
Xavier's  condition  was  ameliorated.     The  new  keepers 
were  indulgent  to  criminals,  and  showed  more  e    iidera- 
tion  for  murderers  than  for  priests  dragged  Irom  the 
churches.     They  felt  that  at  need  they  could  depend  upon 


0  the  foot  of  the  Cross, 
ikcwise  cursed  what  he 

inly  tried  to  calm  and 
a  cassock  aroused  his 
e  included  all  who  wore 
ri  of  the  same  Saviour, 
nd  the  dread  mystery 
rould  fain  have  had  his 
ig  that  he  had  doubted 
jcrecy  of  priests, 
the  moment,  but  these 
ittertd  by  the  recoUec- 

1  his  venom  and  bitter- 
erless  to  console  him. 
id,  he  dwelt  forever  on 
ist.     Now  he  was  at  a 

banknotes  or  piles  of 
lome  luxurious  board, 
stening  from  his  stall 
Giovanni,  Favorita  or 
emories,  and  contrast- 
:,  he  began  to  think  of 
ot  through  any  great- 
>r  fear  of  physical  suf- 
inute  dread.  Besides, 
sy  left  him  at  Roquette 
ved  that  the  moment 
would  manage  to  de- 
i  out  his  brains  against 
gn  of  the  Commune 
d.  The  new  keepers 
owed  more  c  iidera- 
its  dragged  trom  the 
ley  could  depend  upon 


THE  TWO   BROTHERS. 


231 


those  whom  the  law  had  condemned.  As  they  had  noth- 
ing to  lose,  not  even  life,  for  it  was  under  sentence,  they 
would  be  naturally  ready  for  any  atrocity,  and  in  Ferr6, 
d'Urbain  and  their  accomplices  were  found  the  last 
refuge  of  cut-throats.  It  is  true  that  Xavier,  low  as  he 
had  fallen,  and  hardened  as  his  judges  had  made  him 
appear,  would  have  shrunk  from  crime  of  any  sort;  but 
in  times  of  anarchy  there  is  always  hope,  and  the  young 
man  saw  liberty  in  bloodshed,  excess  and  sacrilege. 

Sabine  told  him  all  that  had  occurred  on  the  night  of 
the  battle  of  Buzenval;  described  Benedict  Fougerais 
brought  in  covered  with  blood  and  dying,  and  herself 
approaching  his  bed  like  a  Sister  of  Charity. 

"  It  is  all  your  own  fault,"  said  Xavier;  "  if  you  had 
married  him  he  would  not  have  gone." 

"  Yes,  he  would,"  said  Sabine.  "  I  would. have  been  the 
first  to  urge  him  to  take  up  arms  in  defence  of  his  coun- 
try. The  only  difference  would  have  been  that  he  would 
have  had  a  wife  whose  family  was  disgraced." 

"Ah!"  said  Xavier,  " so  you  are  another  victim  of  Sul- 
pice's  silence." 

"Do  not  speak  so,"  said  Sabine  firmly;  "you  have  too 
little  idea  of  holy  things  to  understand  them  aright.  I 
would  sacrifice  my  life  to  give  you  freedom,  and  I  would 
rather  sacrifice  my  own  happiness  than  see  Sulpice  false 
to  his  oath.  Yes,  we  are  both  victims,  but  of  a  sublime 
law  called  duty;  but  I  much  prefer  to  suffer  than  to  be 
forced  to  despise  Sulpice.  I  love  Benedict  with  my 
whole  heart.  From  childhood  upwards  I  remember  him 
almost  as  part  of  the  family,  and  at  last  my  father  chose 
him  for  me  as  a  husband.  Yet  I  found  the  courage  to 
give  him  up.  If  you  knew,  Xavier,  what  comfort  there 
is  in  faith,  you  would  fall  on  your  knees,  were  it  only  for 
consolation's  sake."  -         *'" 

But  Sabine  could  make  no  impression  on  her  brother, 


fc"'——  -• 


IDOLS. 

and  this  was  another  thorn  in  her  sorely  tortured  heart. 
Soon,  however,  she  had  the  consolation  of  seeing  a  favora- 
ble change  in  Benedict's  condition.  The  wound  in  the 
breast  was  closed,  and  that  upon  the  forehead,  thoujjh 
taking  longer  to  heal,  caused  them  no  anxiety. 

Sometimes  he  had  intervals  of  consciousness.     There 
had  been,  in  fact,  no  concussion  of  the  brain.     The'de- 
lirium  of  pain,  the  excitement  of  the  life  he  had  recently 
led,  the  great  mental  shocks  of  the  various  phases  of  ihe 
war,  the  superhuman  struggle  at  Buzenval,  had  all  a 
much  greater  share  in  paralyzing  his  faculties  than  even 
his  terrible  wounds.     Thought  returned  slowly,  but  when 
he  understood  what  was  passing  about  him,  and  knew 
that  he  was  with  Sabine  and  Sulpice,  his  happiness  con- 
tributed  to  his  cure.     The  doctor  warned  Sabine  not  to 
deprive  him  of  hope,  declaring  that  a  violent  shock  might 
be  his  death,  and  Benedict,  finding  her  so  kind  and  gen- 
tle, began   to  hope  everything  for  the  future.     Sulpice 
himself  brought  Benedict  as  soon  as  he  was  able  home 
to  his  studio  on  the  Boulevard  de  CUchy.     Beppo  being 
scarcely  sufficient  to   provide   for  his   master's   wants, 
Sulpice  found  as  nurse  for  him  a  widow  whose  husband 
had  fallen  at  Montrelont.     Having  thus  attended  to  the 
welfare  of  his  friend,  the  priest  began  to  devote  himself 
agam  to  his  work  at  the  factory  of  Charenton.     The  rich 
must  give  the  example.     The  people  had  suffered  and 
bled,  their  wounds  must  be  staunched.     But  it  was  the 
peo.'.e  themselves  who  would   not  accept  the  offered 
help.      The  cannons  of  Montmartre  were  seized  ;   the 
muskets  destined  for  the  defence  of  the  country  were 
used  in  a  general  revolt. 

The  cannon  still  boomed  and  fights  were  fought,  but 
it  was  no  longer  soldiers  and  noble  volunteers  defending 
the  sacred  soil  of  their  country.     An  army  was,  indeed 
encamped  outside  of  Paris,  besieged  for  the  second  time 


*'^*«iWiiiit»iiiiiMii»Miriiiiiiia 


THE  TWO   BROTHERS. 


233 


sorely  tortured  heart, 
tion  of  seeing  a  favora- 
n.     The  wound  in  the 
the  forehead,  thoiifjh 
I  no  anxiety, 
consciousness.     There 
•  the  brain.     The'de- 
he  life  he  had  recently 
various  phases  of  ihe 
Buzenval,  had  all  a 
lis  faculties  than  even 
rned  slowly,  but  when 
about  him,  and  knew 
ce,  his  happiness  con- 
varned  Sabine  not  to 
a  violent  shock  might 
her  so  kind  and  gen- 
the  future.     Sulpice 
as  he  was  able  home 
'lichy.     Beppo  being 
his   master's   wants, 
'idow  whose  husband 
thus  attended  to  the 
fan  to  devote  himself 
:harenton.     The  rich 
pie  had  suffered  and 
lied.     But  it  was  the 
t  accept  the  offered 
re  were  seized ;   the 
of  the  country  were 

:hts  were  fought,  but 

volunteers  defending 

n  army  was,  indeed 

for  the  second  time 


but  Paris,  mutilated  and  bleeding,  had  scarcely  time  to 
count  her  ruins;  they  were  increasing  every  day. 

The  mob  who  fought  in  Paris,  and  defended  the  capi- 
tal against  the  regular  army,  were  the  members  of  the 
Commune,  their  banner,  a  red  rag,  inciting  them  to 
sacrilege  and  murder.  Churches  were  sacked;  ruffians 
openly  preached  their  doctrine  of  free  love  in  the  sacred 
])laces.  Wretches  abolished  all  religious  law,  decreed  the 
suppression  of  worship,  and  tore  the  divine  Figure  from 
the  crucifix.  Women  wearing  red  sashes,  their  hair  fall- 
ing in  a  loose  net  upon  their  back,  and  a  leathern  bag 
slung  at  their  side,  ran  about  among  the  half-drunken 
populace,  vomiting  out  terrible  blasphemies.  Often  great 
wagons  stopped  at  the  doors  of  churches,  and  presently 
officers  of  the  Commune,  in  costumes  bedizened  with 
gold,  and  escorted  by  a  band  of  pillagers,^  were  seen  to 
emerge  laden  with  their  spoils.  They  had  ransacked 
sanctuary  and  sacristy,  emptied  the  cupboards  and  seized 
a  rich  booty. 

The  reign  of  liberty  began  by  proscriptions.  Blood 
flowed  on  the  streets.  Generals  were  shot  in  the  cor- 
ners of  obscure  gardens.  Men  who  had  written  vol- 
umes against  capital  punishment  to  screen  miscreants 
from  the  consequences  c '  their  crime  unrelentingly  put 
to  death  whomsoever  they  suspected  of  being  opposed  to 
their  desires  or  their  vengeance.  Many  were  forced  into 
the  service  of  these  brigands.  Night  and  day  the  Ven- 
geurs  of  the  Commune  searched  houses  and  dragged 
thence  young  men  and  old,  forcing  them  at  the  bayonet's 
point  to  serve  in  their  ranks.  The  Rouge  journals  in- 
vented a  language  consisting  of  oaths  ard  blasphemy. 
Terror  was  mingled  with  disgust,  and  horror  surpassed 
even  terror.  Street  boys  carried  about  hideous  pictures, 
accompanied  with  indecent  songs  or  dialogues,  in  which 
the  dead  whose  remains  had  been  profaned  were  made 


isff°=^««swg?a»aiftiitf'ia^^ 


234 


ir»(ii,s. 


to  bear  a  part.  The  convents  wcrr  thrown  open,  under 
pretence  of  liberating  the  nuns,  and  the  holy  mystery, 
enshrouding  their  austerities  and  discipline,  exposed  to 
the  vulgar  view.  Novices  and  professed  sisters  were 
alike  driven  into  the  streets,  at  the  same  time  that  civil 
marriage  was  proclaimed  sufficient,  and  divorce  made 
legal. 

Yet  all  these  horrors,  these  blasphemies,  these  profa- 
nations, these  legalized  thefts,  this  persecution,  and  the 
insane  ravings  of  the  wretched  rags  they  called  their 
newspapers,  did  not  suffice  for  the  Communists.     The 
hatred  of  religion  produced  hatred  of  its  representatives. 
Blood  could  not  flow  fast  enough  for  their  desires.     They 
would  fain  have  had  speedier  and  more  frequent  execu- 
tions.     Hostages  were  taken  who  were  chosen  princi- 
pally from  amongst  the  clergy  and  magistrates.     Priests, 
both  secular  and  religious,  were  brought  before  the  tri- 
bunal  of  the  Commune.     To  the  great  honor  of  the 
Parisian  clergy  it  must  be  said  that  they  rose  at  once  to 
the   height   of  persecution  and  martyrdom.     They  re- 
mained at  their  post,  they  continued  to  celebrate  the 
divine  office,  and  to  expose  themselves  to  death  at  the 
foot  of  those  altars  profaned  by  the  ruffian  soldiers  of 
the  Commune.    They  continued  to  visit  the  sick,  teach 
the  children,  and  every  priest  in  Paris,  deeming  himself 
no  greater  than  his  Master,  hourly  expected  to  share  the 
fate  of  the  archbishop,  then  a  prisoner  at  Mazas. 

Sabine  had  not  a  moment's  rest.  She  was  in  constant 
fear  for  Sulpice's  life  or  liberty,  for  the  young  priest 
would  not  even  yield  so  far  to  the  Commune  as  to  wear 
secular  clothes.  He  continued  as  usual  to  officiate  at  the 
church,  and  deeming  himself  unworthy  the  grace  of  mar- 
tyrdom, was  ready  to  meet  it  if  ne(;essary.  Late  one 
evening,  as  he  was  passing  a  Communist  post,  a  drunken 
sentry  suddenly  barred  his  passage. 


wffliiiittiiMiitifMfimn^        „.- 


irero  thrown  open,  under 
,  and  the  holy  mystery, 
id  discipline,  exposed  to 
professed  sisters  were 
the  same  time  that  civil 
lent,  and  divorce  made 

lasphemies,  these  profa- 
lis  persecution,  and  the 

rags  they  called  their 
the  Communists.  The 
id  of  its  representatives, 
for  their  desires.  They 
i  more  frequent  execu- 
lo  were  chosen  princi- 
d  magistrates.  Priests, 
brought  before  the  tri- 
he  great  honor  of  the 
hat  they  rose  at  once  to 
martyrdom.  They  re- 
inued  to  celebrate  the 
mselves  to  death  at  the 
'  the  ruffian  soldiers  of 
to  visit  the  sick,  teach 
Paris,  deeming  himself 
y  expected  to  share  the 
soner  at  Mazas. 
t.  She  was  in  constant 
,  for  the  young  priest 
e  Commune  as  to  wear 

usual  to  officiate  at  the 
orthy  the  grace  of  mar- 
'.  ne(;essary.  Late  one 
munist  post,  a  drunken 


TllK  TWi>   HR(  nil  Kits. 


235 


"  Citizen,"  said  he,  "  your  passport." 

"  I  am  a  resident  of  Paris,"  said  Sulpice,  mildly. 

"That's  nothing.     I  want  your  papers,  your  passport." 

"  If  you  come  with  me  to  the  Rue  Chauss6e  d'Antin  I 
will  give  you  all  the  papers  you  require." 

"So  you  do  not  carry  them  about  you,"  said  the  wretch. 
".Ml  right,  I  will  sign  your  passport." 

Drawing  a  revolver  from  his  pocket  he  pointed  it  at 
Sulpice,  when  an  officer  interposed. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  said;  "but  it  is  better  for  you  to 
come  with  me  to  the  guard-room  than  to  remain  at  the 
mercy  of  this  drunken  fellow." 

The  abb6  thanked  the  officer  and  followed  him.  After 
half  an  hour's  walk  through  streets  bristling  with  barri- 
cades he  was  ushered  into  a  sort  of  hall,  at  the  door  of 
which  stood  a  sentry.  Eight  or  ten  others,vSome  of  whom 
belonged  to  the  International  Aid  Society,  were  brought 
in  shortly  after. 

For  two  hours  Sulpice  was  kept  in  this  room,  which  was 
fairly  reeking  with  tobacco,  and  ringing  with  the  licen- 
tious songs  of  the  half-drunken  soldiery.  They  were 
all  drinking  and  smoking,  save  those  who  had  rolled 
drunk  under  the  table.  Meanwhile  Sulpice's  name  was 
taken  and  his  case  referred  to  the  head  of  that  detach- 
ment. The  latter  gave  orders  that  the  priest  should  be 
brought  to  the  Prefecture.  It  was  about  six  in  the  even- 
ing when  he  reached  there.  He  was  immediately  brought 
before  the  commandant^ 

"  Where's  the  accuser  ?"  asked  he  of  one  of  the  soldiers. 

"Accuser?  there  is  none.  All  that  is  a  farce.  He's 
a  cahtin* — Si  priest.  A  patriot  has  a  right  to  condemn 
the  oppressors  of  the  people.  However,  the  captain  is 
coming." 

*  A  derisive  epitbet  in  aUusion  to  die  skull-cap  sometimes  worn  \ff 
priests. 


•^"-^'•^'^■""•""'riiiwritiTiiiirM 


wmm 


236 


IDOLS. 


The  captain  said  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice  to  tlic 
commandant;  the  latter  gave  the  signal,  and  the  priest 
was  surrounded,  seized  and  thrown  into  a  cell,  wheiu x- 
they  had  that  morning  released  a  criminal.  Three  days 
passed  before  his  examination  took  place.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  the  Abb6  Pomereul  was  taken  out,  jeered  at, 
insulted  and  mocked  by  a  crowd  of  ruffians  wearing  the 
red  sash,  and  led  through  various  corridors  till  he  came 
to  the  tribunal  of  so-called  justice.  Rigaut  raised  his 
head,  hearing  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  gave  orders  that 
the  prisoner  should  be  brought  in. 

It  would  be  hard  for  any  one  that  had  not  seen  this 
wretch,  who  held  in  his  hand  the  lives  of  the  hostages, 
to  form  any  idea  of  his  face;  the  sharp  features,  the  vul- 
ture-like profile,  the  thin  lips  parting  over  the  white 
teeth,  the  cruel  and  tiger-like  expression,  made  up  a  re- 
pulsive whole,  which  once  seen  was  not  easily  forgotten. 
His  very  countenance  breathed  that  gall,  venom,  and 
bitterness  which  made  him  condemn  the  just  to  deaih  in 
mere  hatred  of  virtue. 

When  Sulpice  was  thrust  into  the  presence  of  Raoul 
Rigaut,  the  latter  asked: 

"  Your  name  and  age  ?" 

"  My  name,  Sulpice  Pomereul;  my  age,  twenty-eight." 

"  Your  profession  ?" 

"  That  of  priest." 

"  That  is  to  say,"  sneered  Rigaut,  "  peddler  of  indul- 
gences, masses  and  absolutions,  whose  office  it  is  to  op- 
press and  deceive  the  people." 

"  Rather  to  bring  them  to  respect  divine  law  first  and 
human  law  afterwards,"  said  Sulpice. 

"  Bah !  you  teach  them  to  execrate  us  who  represent 
the  law." 

"No,"  cried  Sulpice,  "for  you  represent  neither  law, 
because  you  lack  the  necessary  strength,  nor  justice,  be- 
cause  you  have  not  the  right." 


m 


'mm 


iiiiiiiffiiiiii 


\  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
s  signal,  and  the  priest 
)wn  into  a  cell,  wheiux- 
I  criminal.  Three  clays 
>lc  place.  At  the  end  of 
as  taken  out,  jeered  at, 
of  ruffians  wearing  tho 
s  corridors  till  he  came 
ice.  Rigaut  raised  his 
•r,  and  gave  orders  that 
1. 

that  had  not  seen  this 
!  lives  of  the  hostages, 
sharp  features,  the  vul- 
larting  over  the  white 
)ression,  made  up  a  re- 
as  not  easily  forgotten, 
that  gall,  venom,  and 
mn  the  just  to  deaih  in 

the  presence  of  Raoul 


•"y  age,  twenty-eight." 


ut,  "  peddler  of  indul- 
rhose  office  it  is  to  op- 

!ct  divine  law  first  and 

ice. 

:rate  us  who  represent 

represent  neither  law, 
rength,  nor  justice,  be- 


TIIK   TWO   BROTH KRS. 


237 


"  So  you  teach  them  to  despise  the  Republic  ?" 

"The  Commune  represents  neither  government  nor 
authority,  nor  even  the  popular  voice,"  said  Sulpice:  "It 
is  an  emissary  of  disorder,  bloodshed  and  anarchy." 

"Do  you  know  where  such  words  must  lead  ycu?" 
asked  Rigaut. 

"To  La  Roquette,  where  you  have  imprisoned  our 
archbishop,"  said  Sulpice. 

"  And  from  La  Roquette  ?" 

"  To  the  place  of  execution,"  answered  the  Abb6  Pom- 
ereul,  composedly. 

"  Do  you  want  to  save  your  life  ?"  asked  Rigaut. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  throw  it  away,"  said  Sulpice. 

"  Then  fling  your  cassock  to  the  dogs,"  said  Rigaut; 
"  take  a  musket  and  fight  with  the  people  for  the  sacred 
cause  of  liberty."  v 

"  The  liberty  I  seek  is  not  of  this  world,"  said  Sulpice; 
"do  as  you  like  with  me." 

Rigaut's  face  lit  up  with  savage  joy  as  he  gave  the 
order, 

"To  La  Roquette  with  the  rest" 

Sulpice's  face  never  changed,  and  he  said  not  a  word, 
though  there  was  a  pang  at  his  heart.  He  thought  of 
Sabine  left  alone,  ail  alone  in  the  world. 

It  was  about  seven  o'clock. 

Through  streets  crowded  with  National  Guard  sol- 
diers, infantry  of  the  Commune,  and  Vengeurs  dt  Flour- 
ens,  his  escort  dragged  him,  a  target  for  the  insults  of  the 
crowd.  Women  spit  upon  him;  his  shoulders  were 
bruised  with  blows,  and  some  even  struck  him  in  the 
face.  But  he  made  no  complaint  and  walked  on  firmly, 
with  head  erect,  praying  inwardly  for  his  persecutors. 
They  forced  him  to  make  a  real  Way  of  the  Cross,  for 
they  stopped  at  every  barricade  and  tavern,  fraternizing 
with  other  ruffians,  and  drinking  to  the  safety  of  the  Re- 
public, till,  becoming  more  and  more  intoxicated,  they 


mmmmmsmtmsm 


338 


IDOLS. 


grew  more  and   more  brutul  to  their  hapless  prisonrr, 
He  had  eaten  notliing  since  morning.     Mis  head  »\vani 
and  Iiis  liml)s  tremhU-d,  but  hi-  concealed  every  sign  df 
this   involuntary   weakness   from   his   captors,   lest  tlipy 
should  attril)ute  it  to  cowardice.     At  length  they  reached 
the  gloomy  entrance  to  La  Koqucttc.     Sulpice,  beholdinjr 
its  high  walls,  olVcrcd  up  his  life  in  advance.     He  was 
kept  in   th..   waiting-room   for  an  hour,  and  meanwhile 
the  list  was  called  to  make  sure  of  the  identity  of  each 
prisoner, 
"Where  are  they  to  be  put?"  asked  the  head  turnkey. 
The  governor  shook  his  head. 
"  We  have  no  place,"  said  he. 

However,  after  a  whispered  consultation  with  the 
head  turnkey,  he  ordered  them  to  be  conveyed  to  the 
fourth  division, 

"  And,"  said  he,  "  to  give  this  bird  of  ill  omen  an  op- 
portunity of  plying  his  craft,  put  him  in  cell  No,  8,  Its 
tenant  is  so  fond  of  priests  he  will  eat  him  up." 

"  Always  fond  of  your  joke,"  said  the  turnkey,  smiling 
complacently  at  the  governor. 

The  under  turnkey  rattled  his  keys  and  bade  Sulpice 
follow  him.  It  had  grown  dark,  there  was  no  light  in 
the  halls;  the  keeper  lit  a  small  lamp  and  led  Sulpice 
through  long  corridors,  regularly  divided  into  cells. 
Pausing  at  No.  8  the  turnkey  selected  a  large  key  from 
the  bunch,  and  opening  the  aoor,  cried  out  in  a  hoarse 
voice, 

"  Comrade,  here's  company  for  you.  If  you're  troubled 
with  remorse  you  can  unburden  your  conscience." 
With  a  malicious  laugh  he  shut  Sulpice  in. 
Sulpice  remained  just  inside  the  cell,  which  was  com- 
pletely dark.  He  could  only  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  straw 
pallet  whereon  was  stretched  a  motionless  figure.  The 
tenant  of  the  cell  rose  as  the  door  closed,  and  sitting  on 


Wi 


THE  TWO  nROTIIKkS. 


239 


D  their  hapless  prisonrr. 
arning.  His  head  swam 
coiK-ealcd  every  s'lan  nl 
m  liis  captors,  lest  they 
At  length  they  readied 
ictte.  Sulpice,  beholditij^ 
life  in  a-lvance.  He  was 
an  hour,  and  meanwhili; 
s  of  the  identity  of  eacli 


asked  the  head  turnlce 


y- 


I   consultation  with   the 
to  be  conveyed  to  the 

bird  of  ill  omen  an  op- 
t  him  in  cell  No.  8.     Its 
ill  eat  him  up." 
laid  the  turnkey,  smiling 

I  keys  and  bade  Sulpice 
k,  there  was  no  light  in 

II  lamp  and  led  Sulpice 
irly  divided  into  cells, 
lected  a  large  key  from 
}r,  cried  out  in  a  hoarse 

you.  If  you're  troubled 
your  conscience." 
t  Sulpice  in. 
he  cell,  which  was  com- 
ch  a  glimpse  of  a  straw 
motionless  figure.  The 
)r  closed,  and  sitting  on 


<^^!-^^&M0^- 


the  side  of  the  brd,  tried  to  distinguish  the  fare  of  Ms 
companion  in  captivity. 

"  From  what  the  keeper  said,"  he  began,  •'  I  suppose  ymi 
to  be  one  of  the  hosta>;es.  Lot  me  hope,  sir,  that  you 
will  have  the  good  taste  to  leave  me  in  p.-ace  during  the 
time  you  share  my  apartment.  Half  of  this  coucii  is 
intended  for  you.  I  will  readily  place  the  whole  of  it  at 
your  disposal.  I  only  ask  to  be  left  to  my  own  thoughts, 
and  that  no  one  will  disturb  my  last  moments." 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  Sulpice  trembled.     He 
rushed  over  10  the  pallet,  seized  the  prisoner's  two  hands, 
and  in  a  voice  of  mingled  joy  and  tenderness  cried, 
"Xavier,  my  brother!" 

"Sulpice!"  criod  the  prisoner  in  amazement.  Then 
he  added  bitterly, 

"  I  understand.  Your  apostolic  duty  req*iired  that  you 
should  come  here  and  force  me  to  hear  the  exhortations 
which  you  must  know  by  heart  by  this  time.  You  must 
needs  have  the  soul  of  that  brother  whose  life  you  have 
sacrificed.  You  want  to  offer  it  as  another  trophy  to  your 
God.  But  you  forget  that  your  Master  abhors  human 
sacrifices,  while  you  offer  me  up  to  a  chimera  of  duty." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Sulpice,  gently.  "  I  did  not 
force  myself  upon  you  even  for  the  sake  of  your  soul.  I 
am  a  prisoner  like  yourself." 

"  A  prisoner !  Why  what  fault  could  you  have  com- 
mitted ?"  cried  Xavier. 

"  The  same  as  the  archbishop,  the  cur^  of  the  Made- 
leine, and  all  who  represent  religion  and  justice." 
"  But  you  will  get  out  of  here  ?" 
"  Yes,  to  die,"  said  Sulpice. 
"It  is  horrible  !"  cried  Xavier. 

"  No;  I  swear  to  you,  my  brother,"  said  Sulpice,  "  I 
would  meet  death  willingly,  if  only  I  could  first  reconcile 
you  with  God  and  teach  you  resignation." 


iauttaniar;^ 


2.fO 


IDOLS. 


"  Resignation,"  cried  Xavier,  "  when  I  am  innocent!" 
"Of  what  crime  have  I  been  guilty  ?"  asked  Sulpicc. 
Xavier  was  silent.  A  struggle  was  going  on  in  his  mind. 
While  his  brother  was  at  liberty  he  had  cherished  a 
sullen  hatred  against  him.  But  seeing  him  now  a  pris- 
oner, condemned  to  almost  certain  and  speedy  death,  his 
resentment  melted  away. 

"  Take  heed  of  what  I  say,  brother,"  said  Sulpfce;  "  be 
assured  whatever  the  Lord  does  is  well  done,  and  I  adore 
His  hand  in  the  punishment  no  less  than  in  the  recom- 
pense. Just  now  you  can  only  see  the  horrors  of  your 
fate;  death  frightens  you,  your  flesh  trembles  at  the 
thought,  you  curse  men  and  blaspheme  God.  Yet  if  for 
one  moment  you  could  understand  the  ways  of  mercy,  you 
would  be  resigned  as  I  am.  Xavier,  we  have  no  longer 
time  to  look  back  to  regret  departed  joys.  Our  eyes 
must  become  accustomed  to  the  darkness  of  the  tomb; 
our  minds  must  learn  to  fathom  the  mysteries  of  eternity. 
If  ever  you  believed  that  I  exaggerated  my  duty  to  God, 
to  you  or  to  myself,  if  you  accuse  me  of  cruelty  or  harsh- 
ness towards  you,  I  beseech  you  in  this  hour,  when  we 
are  face  to  face  with  death,  to  believe  that  I  could  neither 
be  false  to  God,  to  you  nor  to  myself.  I  offered  my  life 
in  exchange  for  yours,  and  I  will  bless  God  if  He  deign 
to  accept  it  as  the  price  of  your  liberty." 

"  My  liberty  ?"  cried  Xavier. 

"Yes;  a  chance  of  liberty  may  be  nearer  than  you 
think.  The  wretches  who  hinder  the  priest  in  the  dis- 
charge of  his  duties  will  shortly  have  need  of  all  those 
who  are  outlawed  by  society.  Very  soon,  now,  in  a  few 
days,  I  believe,  they  will  throw  open  the  prison  doors." 

"  For  what  purpose  ?" 

"  That  you  may  all  be  made  docile  instruments  in  the 
accomplishment  of  new  crimes." 

Just  then  the  shuffling  of  feet  and  the  clanking  of 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


241 


"  when  I  am  innocent!" 
I  guilty?"  asked  Sulpice. 
ivas  going  on  in  his  mind. 
;rty  he  had  cherished  a 
t  seeing  him  now  a  pris- 
ain  and  speedy  death,  his 

other,"  said  Sulpfce;  "  be 
is  well  done,  and  I  adore 
less  than  in  the  recom- 
'  see  the  horrors  of  your 
r  flesh  trembles  at  the 
spheme  God.  Yet  if  for 
id  the  ways  of  mercy,  you 
ivier,  we  have  no  longer 
eparted  joys.  Our  eyes 
;  darkness  of  the  tomb; 
:he  mysteries  of  eternity, 
gerated  my  duty  to  God, 
e  me  of  cruelty  or  harsh- 
n  in  this  hour,  when  we 
ilieve  that  I  could  neither 
lyself.  I  offered  my  life 
1  bless  God  if  He  deign 
liberty." 

lay  be  nearer  than  you 
er  the  priest  in  the  dis- 
j  have  need  of  all  those 
/ery  soon,  now,  in  a  few 
open  the  prison  doors." 

ocile  instruments  in  the 

et  and  the  clanking  of 


swords  mingled  with  oaths  and  imprecations  were  heard 
in  the  corridor  without,  and  the  list  was  called  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  the  condemned. 

Doors  were  opened  and  closed,  there  was  a  sound  of 
footsteps  descending  the  stairs,  and  all  was  still  again. 
Xavier  shuddered  and  Sulpice  fell  upon  his  knees. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  sharp,  irregular  volley  of  musketry 
resounded  in  the  courtyard  below,  two  or  three  pistol 
shots,  and  a  shout  of  "  Vive  la  Republique !" 

"Xavier,"  said  Sulpice,  seizing  his  brother  again  by 
both  hands,  "martyrs  have  just  fallen,  our  turn  may 
soon  come.  I  swear  to  you  by  our  dead  mother,  by  my 
vows,  by  my  own  soul,  that  we  must  prepare  to  die,  and 
to  die  as  Christians.  Xavier,  I  know  you  would  find 
it  hard  to  lay  bare  your  conscience  to  a  strange  priest. 
But  to  me,  poor  boy,  what  caa  you  tell  that  I  do  not 
already  know,  and  am  not  already  prepared  to  excuse  ? 
It  is  not  alone  the  minister  of  God  who  questions  you, 
but  your  friend,  your  brother,  who  upon  the  verge  of 
the  grave  asks  if  you  have  ever  known  real  Lappiness  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Xavier,  shaking  his  head.  ^ 

"  For  each  imperfect  joy  did  you  not  find  a  hundred 
vexations  ?  The  cup  of  revelry  contained  its  drops  of 
gall,  the  sinful  pleasures  produced  weariness  and  satiety. 
In  vain  you  sought  new  excitement  for  heart  and  mind. 
The  void  remained  in  the  heart,  and  the  weariness  in 
the  spirit." 

"  It  is  true,"  murmured  Xavier. 

"  You  offered  incense  before  every  idol  that  the  world 
adores.  You  sought  for  love,  but,  knowing  not  that  beauty 
ever  ancient  and  ever  new  of  which  St  Augustine  speaks, 
you  did  not  find  even  its  pale  reflection.  You  pitied  me 
because  I  lived  in  poverty,  fasted  and  crucified  my  flesh; 
yet,  amid  all  these  privations,  my  heart  often  leaped  for 
joy,  and  I  praised  God  with  hymns  of  thanksgiving." 


1 


242 


IDOLS. 


!(;' 


"Ah!"  cried  Xavler,  clasping  his  hands  and  resting 
them  upon  his  knees. 

"  Oh,  do  you  not  regret  having  turned  your  mind  and 
body  to  evil  uses  ?"  said  Sulpice. 

"Yes,"  said  Xavier,  "but  now  my  soul  seems  dead 
within  me." 

"  Men,  judging  you  by  your  faults,"  continued  Sulpice, 
"  have  loaded  you  with  shame  and  obloquy,  and  the  Lord 
has  permitted  it,  because  wealth  and  prosperity  kept  you 
away  from  Him.  Now  He  calls  you.  He  knows  how 
severe  is  your  trial.  He  himself,  though  innocent,  sub- 
mitted to  the  false  judgments  of  men.  If  you  will  only 
raise  supplicating  hands  to  Him  He  will  save  you,  and 
grant  you  for  inconceivable  time  the  happiness  which  the 
world  promises  indeed,  but  is  powerless  to  give." 

Again  there  was  a  clamor  in  the  hall,  and  Xavier  could 
distinguish  the  words, 

"  Paris  is  in  flames !  The  buildings  of  the  Minister  of 
Finance,  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  the  whole  of  the  Rue 
de  Lille  and  the  Tuileries  are  burning." 

"  O  God  !"  cried  Sulpice,  "  have  you  forsaken  us  ?" 

Innumerable  voices  took  up  the  refrain. 

"The  Versaillists  must  find  Paris  a  heap  of  ashes.  To 
work,  all  good  patriots !  Let  us  put  a  bullet  in  the  hos- 
tages, and  set  free  all  who  will  take  up  arms  for  the 
cause  of  the  people." 

The  rattling  of  keys  was  heard  and  shouts  of  joy  from 
the- prisoners.  Presently  a  crew  of  thieves,  murderers 
and  ruffians  of  every  description  were  let  loose  to  take 
their  part  in  the  human  sacrifices,  and  revenge  them- 
selves upon  society  which  had  so  lately  condemned  them. 
Xavier's  door,  like  the  rest,  was  thrown  open  and  a  keeper 
offered  him  a  musket. 

"  Come,  here's  a  chance  for  you,"  he  said.  "  It's  better 
to  get  a  bullet  put  through  you  than  to  wait  for  Chariot's 


^ifttiftiitiiiiiiiiii 


m^^* 


THE  TWO  BROTIIKRS. 


243 


his  hands  and  resting 

g  turned  your  mind  and 

w  my  soul  seems  dead 

alts,"  continued  Sulpice, 
d  obloquy,  and  the  Lord 
and  prosperity  kept  you 
Is  you.  He  knows  how 
I,  though  innocent,  sub- 
men.  If  you  will  only 
1  He  will  save  you,  and 
the  happiness  which  the 
werless  to  give." 
e  hall,  and  Xavier  could 

dings  of  the  Minister  of 
id  the  whole  of  the  Rue 
rning." 

e  you  forsaken  us  ?" 
e  refrain. 

ris  a  heap  of  ashes.     To 

put  a  bullet  in  the  hos- 

take  up  arms  for  the 

and  shouts  of  joy  from 
r  of  thieves,  murderers 
I  were  let  loose  to  take 
;es,  and  revenge  them- 
lately  condemned  them, 
rown  open  and  a  keeper 

,"  he  said.  "It's  better 
lan  to  wait  for  Chariot's 


knife.  The  Versaillists  have  taken  the  half  of  Paris; 
they  are  upon  our  track,  but  we  are  not  conquered  yet. 
We  will  defend  the  Republic  to  the  death,  so  here's  a 
chance  for  you  to  escape." 

The  young  man  sprang  forward  eagerly.  But  Sulpice 
was  before  him.  Seizing  the  weapon  which  the  man  was 
offering  his  brother,  he  bent  it  across  his  knees  with  as- 
tonishing strength,  broke  it,  and  threw  the  fragments  to 
a  distance. 

"Why  did  you  do  that ?"  cried  Xavier. 

"  To  save  you,"  answered  the  priest,  calmly. 

"Miserable  calotin!"  cried  the  keeper,  "not  content 
with  preaching  lies,  you  want  to  hinder  those  who  are 
about  to  take  up  arms  for  the  Commune." 

"I  want  to  prevent  Frenchmen  from  fighting  with 
Frenchmen,"  said  the  abb6.  n 

"  Your  fellow  prisoner  should  take  the  knife  to  you," 
said  the  keeper.  "  Do  you  think  the  pretty  boy  is  a  pas- 
chal lamb  ?  He  killed  his  father,  and  you  want  to  prevent 
him  fighting  the  Versaillists.     It's  not  just." 

Far  from  adding  to  Xavier's  desire  for  liberty,  so 
strong  a  moment  before,  these  words  filled  him  with 
horror. 

"My  boy,"  said  Sulpice,  "if  you  go  down  into  the 
street  and  fight  behind  one  of  those  barricades,  no  one 
will  believe  in  your  innocence.  There  remains  a  means 
of  proving  it  to  the  world:  prefer  death  to  dishonor  and 
even  your  accusers  can  no  longer  deem  you  capable  of 
such  a  crime.  Your  rehabilitation  is  in  your  own  hands. 
Stay  with  me.  Let  us  die  together.  Better  such  a  death 
than  a  life  of  dishonor.  Besides,  you  xa&y  be  certain, 
Xavier,  that  God,  who  never  leaves  a  good  action  unre- 
warded, will  permit  that  if  your  life  be  not  saved,  at  least 
your  memory  will  be  cleared  of  the  terrible  stain  that 
rests  upon  you.    In  this  supreme  hour  draw  near  tQ  UlC 


''mtliS''*''^'»>mimmKtmm 


VSSUM 


244 


IDOLS. 


brother  and  the  priest.  I  must  be  tirm,  for  God  is  in  my 
heart,  and  if  you  waver  I  will  be  here  to  support  you. 
Stay;  such  a  death  will  be  martyrdom !  It  will  efface 
every  fault,  and  by  the  baptism  of  blood  you  will  be  re- 
stored to  your  primal  innocence.  Stay,  Xavier,  for  the 
expiation  of  past  sins  to  purchase  heaven." 

Sulpice  knelt  at  his  brother's  feet.  With  streaming 
eyes  and  voice  choked  with  emotion  he  implored  him 
thus.  He  offered  to  God  his  future  sufferings  as  the 
price  of  this  soul  doubly  dear  and  doubly  sacred  in  his 
eyes,  and  so  ardent  was  his  prayer,  so  eloquent  his  tears 
that  Xavier's  hardened  heart  was  softened,  and  kneeling 
in  his  turn  he  raised  his  brother's  crucifix  to  his  lips. 
Thenceforth  he  heard  neither  musketry,  nor  the  groans 
of  the  condemned,  nor  the  shouts  of  the  soldiers.  Ab- 
sorbed in  his  new  thoughts,  occupied  with  the  remem- 
brance of  the  speedy  death  that  awaited  them,  he  threw 
himself  with  one  great  sob  into  the  arms  of  the  brother 
whom  he  had  so  cruelly  misunderstood. 

The  night  was  spent  by  the  two  brothers  in  discussing 
their  approaching  death.  Ever  and  anon  keepers  rush- 
ing through  the  passages  cried  out  that  the  Rue  Royale 
had  been  completely  destroyed  by  fire,  that  the  public 
granaries  and  the  theatre  at  St.  Martin's  Gate  were  in 
flames. 

"Alas  !*'  thought  the  brothers,  "  our  deliverers,  the  sol- 
diers of  the  army,  will  come  too  late." 

The  night  passed  in  prayer,  repentance  and  interchange 
of  affection. 

Xavier  had  made  the  sacrifice.  Becoming  truly  Chris- 
tian he  was  resigned.  A  portion  of  his  brother's  sublime 
courage  passed  into  his  soul.  From  that  time  forth  he 
judged  his  past  life  with  rigorous  severity.  His  awak- 
ened conscience  showed  him  all  his  faults.  The  bitter- 
ness of  his  remorse  might,  indeed,  have  made  him  de- 


!  firm,  for  God  is  in  my 
:  here  to  support  you. 
yrdom!  It  will  efface 
i  blood  you  will  be  re- 
Stay,  Xavier,  for  the 
I  heaven." 

feet.  With  streaming 
>tion  he  implored  him 
iture  sufferings  as  the 
d  doubly  sacred  in  his 
;r,  so  eloquent  his  tears 
softened,  and  kneeling 
r's  crucifix  to  his  lips, 
isketry,  nor  the  groans 
s  of  the  soldiers.  Ab- 
ipied  with  the  remem- 
iwaited  them,  he  threw 
he  arms  of  the  brother 
•stood. 

>  brothers  in  discussing 
md  anon  keepers  rush- 
ut  that  the  Rue  Royale 
}y  fire,  that  the  public 
Martin's  Gate  were  in 

'  our  deliverers,  the  sol- 
ate." 
intance  and  interchange 

Becoming  truly  Chris- 
of  his  brother's  sublime 
rom  that  time  forth  he 
IS  severity.  His  awak- 
his  faults.  The  bitter- 
k1,  have  made  him  de- 


•#iaiMMIiMM*K!'<i>r-~-' 


Jj 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


245 


spair  had  not  Sulpice,  crucifix  '"  hand,  reminded  him  of 
the  mercy  of  God.  That  w.  .  holy  vigil  of  tears  and 
prayers,  during  which  those  who  were  soon  to  die  forgot 
themselves  in  prayers  for  their  afflicted  country. 

In  the  morning  Sulpice  got  paper  and  pen.  He  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  Sabine,  the  martyrs'  grave  and  tender 
farewell  to  that  beloved  sister.  Having  encouraged  her 
to  bear  this  now  trial  bravely,  he  advised  her  to  become 
Benedict  Fougerais'  wife.  These  last  thoughts  given  to 
eaTth  the  priest  turned  entirely  to  God.  Without  the 
tumult  incrcSased  every  moment.  The  Square  de  la  Ro- 
quette  was  filled  with  a  howling  multitude.  They  an- 
nounced the  progress  made  by  the  Versaillists,  cursing 
them  the  while.  The  brethren  had  taken  shelter  about 
the  guillotine  and  in  cemeteries;  driven  from  the  last  bar- 
ricades they  could  find  no  other  asylqnr  than  Pere  la 
Chaise. 

The  populace,  which  had  witnessed  the  murder  of  the 
archbishop,  cried  out  for  new  blood  like  the  wild  beasts 
in  a  menagerie.  In  the  humiliation  of  their  ignominious 
defeat  the  leaders  of  the  Commune  resolved  that  blood 
should  flow  as  long  as  their  moment  of  power  lasted. 

Some  were  killed  in  the  last  struggle,  falling  among  the 
heaps  of  corpses  which  they  had  made;  others  assumed 
female  garments,  hoping  in  this  disguise  to  escape  in  the 
general  disorder  that  was  certain  to  follow  the  taking  of 
the  capital  by  the  Versaillists.  Whilst  one  portion  of 
Paris  hailed  the  tri-colored  flag  as  the  symbol  of  order 
and  security,  the  red  flag  of  the  Commune  still  waved 
over  other  parts  of  the  city.  The  oppression  of  which 
the  Communists  accused  their  foes  was  practised  a  hun- 
dredfold by  themselves.  Incendiary  fires  and  a  final  list 
of  crimes  marked  the  fall  of  a  power  which  had  only 
existed  to  commit  murders.  For  the  second  time  that 
day  the  turnkeys  came  up,  accompanied  by  an  officer 


■vxti!^vSfiWU/if'-- 


-Mi-wmmm 


mmm 


246 


IDOLS. 


of  the  Commune,  who  read  out  the  Ibt  of  condemned 
prisoners.  As  they  pronounced  each  name  its  owner 
advanced,  saying,  "  Present." 

They  were  all  priests  or  gendarmes.  The  one  saw 
the  approach  of  their  fate  with  holy  enthusiasm,  the 
other  with  manly  fortitude.  The  soldiers  hurriedly 
whispered  a  confession  of  their  ch'ef  faults;  the  priests 
gave  them  absolution  and  embracevl  them.  Sulpice  and 
Xavier  ap;  .  n  .  arm  in  arm.  A  murmur  of  astonish- 
ment and  piiy  passed  through  the  group  of  the  con- 
demned. 

The  Ahh6  Sulpice,  pale  as  marble,  his  brow  still 
marked  by  the  red  scar,  seemed  ripe  for  martyrdom. 
Many  of  the  spectators  had  reason  to  know  his  gen- 
erosity and  benevolence.  Even  among  the  Communists 
some  few  felt  a  sort  of  painful  surprise  at  his  condem- 
nation, but  the  greater  number  were  filled  with  savage 
joy,  and  clapped  their  hands  in  triumph.  At  this  mo- 
ment a  breathless,  panting  girl  rushed  through  the 
crowd,  and  threw  her  arms  about  Sulpice.  It  was  Sa- 
bine, who,  seeing  that  her  brother  did  not  appear,  and 
aware  that  the  arrests  were  still  continuing,  had  rushed 
from  prison  to  prison  till  she  came  to  La  Roquette. 
She  vainly  begged  to  see  hei*  brothers,  and,  brutally  re- 
fused, had  spent  the  night,  spite  of  terror  and  fatigue, 
outside  an  adjoining  shop.  She  never  lost  sight  of  the 
prison  door,  so  that  if  her  brothers  were  brought  out 
she  must  see  them  once  more.  In  the  morning,  she 
questioned  every  passer-by.  They  were  all  in  expecta- 
tion of  a  new  execution,  and  Sabine  felt  hope  die  in 
her  breast  Only  one  comfort  remained:  to  receive  Sul- 
pice's  last  blessing  as  he  passed  to  the  place  of  execu- 
tion. She  was  forced  by  the  crowd  up  against  the  wall, 
where  she  awaited  the  appearance  of  the  condemned. 
When  the  prison  door  grated  on  its  hinges  her  heart 


iis-iiiiiffiiieiwigw 


MHI 


J 


the  list  of  condemned 
each   name  its  owner 

armes.  The  one  saw 
holy  enthusiasm,  the 
'he  soldiers  hurriedly 
h'ef  faults;  the  priests 
evl  them.  Sulpice  and 
^  murmur  of  astonish- 
the  group  of  the  con- 

tarble,  his  brow  still 
ripe  for  martyrdom, 
ison  to  know  his  gen- 
mong  the  Communists 
urprise  at  his  condem- 
krere  filled  with  savage 
triumph.  At  this  mo- 
1  rushed  through  the 
It  Sulpice.  It  was  Sa- 
;r  did  not  appear,  and 
continuing,  had  rushed 
;ame  to  La  Roquette. 
thers,  and,  brutally  re- 
of  terror  and  fatigue, 
never  lost  sight  of  the 
lers  were  brought  out 
In  the  morning,  she 
ey  were  all  in  expecta- 
ibine  felt  hope  die  in 
nained:  to  receive  Sul- 
to  the  place  of  execu- 
ivd  up  against  the  wall, 
nee  of  the  condemned, 
n  its  hinges  her  heart 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


247 


almost  ceased  to  beat.  She  made  a  violent  effort,  raised 
herself  on  tiptoe  to  see,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy  threw  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  Sulpice,  The  Communists  would 
have  repulsed  her  brutally,  but  a  woman  interposed,  and 
the  hapless  girl  remained  clasped  for  a  moment  to  that 
generous  and  noble  heart  which  so  soon  must  cease  to 
beat. 

"  I  followed  you,  Sulpice,  I  followed  you,"  she  cried 
frantically;  "if  they  murder  priests,  surely  they  will 
murder  Christian  women.     If  you  die  I  cannot  live." 

The  Abb6  Sulpice  pressed  Xavier's  haud. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  said,  hastily,  "  I  said  die,  to-day  I  say, 
live.  Save  yourself,  profit  by  the  tumult;  you  cannot 
help  me  by  staying  here.  Take  Sabine  away  from  this 
scene  of  horror." 

The  soldiers  and  spectators,  surprised  and  even  touched 
for  an  instant  by  Sabine's  appearance,  soon  discovered 
that  these  family  affairs  were  interfering  with  the  justice 
of  the  people. 

The  word  of  command  was  given,  the  band  of  Com- 
munists began  to  move.  Sabine,  rudely  snatched  from 
her  brother's  arms,  fell  upon  the  ground.  The  abb6 
bent  towards  Xavier. 

"  Save  her,"  he  cried,  "  I  command  you  !" 

Xavier  hastily  seized  the  prostrate  form,  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  crowd,  while  the  Communists  with  their 
victims  passed  on  towards  the  Boulevard  des  Aman- 
diers. 


248 


UOLS. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Jean  MAcnty. 

It  had  seized  its  prey  at  last,  that  ferocious  beast 
called  "the  people  of  Paris,"  which  during  eighty  years 
has  made  such  violent  efforts  to  become  supreme  master 
of  France.  It  howled,  it  fairly  shrieked  for  joy,  to  see 
in  its  power  the  two  classes  of  men  whose  lives  are  spent 
i'.  maintaining  peace  and  good  order:  the  priest,  who 
educates  children  to  virtue,  and  the  gendarme,  belonging 
to  that  picked  body  of  soldiers,  sworn  to  carry  out  the 
law  even  at  the  expense  of  their  lives. 

Truly,  witnessing  the  unreasonable  hatred  evinqed  by 
these  wretches  against  men  whose  only  crime  was  the 
defence  of  justice  against  injustice,  the  preservation  of 
the  rights  of  property,  and  even  of  human  life,  it  was 
plain  that  their  sole  object  was  impunity  to  commit 
every  possible  misdeed,  and  more  especially  those  worthy 
of  capital  punishment. 

Calm  and  dignified  the  prisoners  walked  among  that 
furious  crew.  They,  the  soldiers  of  duty,  who  had  up- 
held the  honor  of  the  French  flagon  many  a  hard-fought 
field,  and  won  their  crosses  and  medals  by  many  a 
wound.  Yf.t  they  were  not  insensible  to  their  fate. 
Bitter  anguish  filled  the  hearts  of  these  bronzed  and 
bearded  gendarmes,  at  thought  of  their  wives  and  chil 
dren  left  unprovided  for  and  unprotected,  and  whom  they 
were  never  to  see  again.  Besides,  this  was  being  led  to 
execution  like  cattle  to  the  slaughter;  death  would  have 
had  no  terror  for  them  on  the  field;  even  yet  their  hearts 
would  have  leaped  for  joy  at  the  sounds  of  battle.  But 
to  die  at  a  street  comer,  to  be  shot  down  at  the  hanck^ 


ri. 


that  ferocious  beast 

1  during  eighty  years 
come  supreme  master 
rieked  for  joy,  to  see 
whose  lives  are  spent 
rder:  the  priest,  who 
e  gendarme,  belonging 
vorn  to  carry  out  the 
es. 

t)le  hatred  evinqed  by 

2  only  crime  was  the 
e,  the  preservation  of 
of  human  life,  it  was 
impunity  to  commit 
specially  those  worthy 

rs  walked  among  that 
af  duty,  who  had  up- 
n  many  a  hard-fought 

medals  by  many  a 
nsible  to  their  fate, 
f  these  bronzed  and 
their  wives  and  chil  • 
ected,  and  whom  they 
this  was  being  led  to 
er;  death  would  have 

even  yet  their  hearts 
junds  of  battle.  But 
t  down  at  the  hands 


JEAN  MACHU. 


249 


of  n  ffians,  seemed  to  them  too  terrible.  They  asked 
themselves  what  crime  they  had  committed  to  merit  so 
terrible  a  chastisement. 

"  If  I  were  alone  in  the  world,"  said  a  gendarme  to 
the  Abb6  Sulpice,  "  it  would  be  all  one  to  me.  I  am  a 
soldier,  that  means  I  have  courage  to  face  death.  I  am 
a  Breton,  therefore  I  have  the  faith;  but  my  wife  is  ill, 
and  my  poor  little  ones  are  not  even  walking  yet.  Who 
will  take  care  of  the  widow  and  the  orphans?  They  will 
be  obliged  to  beg,  and  if  the  news  of  my  death  should 
likewise  kill  the  mother,  [mblic  charity  will  have  to  take 
the  children  as  beggars,  pariahs.  It  is  terrible,  so  terri- 
ble that  I  am  tempted  to  ask,  now  when  about  to  appear 
before  my  Judge,  whether  I  can  expect  justice  ?" 

"  Yes,  comrade,  and  more  than  justice,  for,  if  possible, 
mercy. seems  among  the  divine  attributes',  to  precede  all 
others.  Your  death  will  be  repaid  to  your  children. 
You  speak  of  justice.  It  will  be  done.  We  fall  to-day, 
but  our  murderers  have  more  to  fear  than  we.  Martyrs 
in  a  holy  cause,  we  are  sure  of  an  eternity  purchased  by 
our  death,  but  what  have  these  poor  wretches  to  expect  ? 
Covered  with  the  blood  they  have  shed,  tracked  like  wild 
beasts,  despair  in  their  hearts,  and  blasphei.iy  on  their 
lips,  they  will  die  cursing  their  fellow  beings;  or  they 
who  survive  will  dearly  expiate  by  a  life  of  anguish  the 
murders  of  to-day.  As  to  your  children,  be  assured  there 
are  many  noble  souls  who  will  be  touched  by  their  help- 
less state,  and  in  the  name  of  the  Master  I  serve,  I  dare 
to  promise  you  protection  for  them." 

Whilst  they  spoke  thus  their  little  group  had  passed 
on  to  the  Boulevard  des  Amandiers,  through  the  Rue 
de  Paris,  and  along  the  Boulevard  des  Couronftes. 

Meanwhile  the  drums  and  clarionets  performed  a  sort 
of  triumphal  march,  often  drowned  by  the  singing  of 
the  Marseillaise  and  the  frenzied  shrieks  of  the  popu- 


— wJ^'*.Kin»«a,^iWSK«KS8a8gjMgJSail 


250 


lUULS. 


in 


lace.  The  Communists,  irritated  by  the  calm  recollec- 
tion t)f  the  doomed  men,  sought  to  disturb  the  peace 
of  their  last  hours  by  furious  words,  and  even  blows. 
Ever  and  anon  their  progress  was  interrupted  by  an 
accession  of  curious  people.  Women,  who  might  have 
served  to  personate  the  furies,  wearing  red  cockades 
and  flaming  red  sashes,  heaped  insults  upon  the  priests, 
who  prayed  aloud.  One  of  these  miserable  creatures 
seized  her  child,  and  tossing  it  on  her  shoulder,  cried 
out  in  a  coarse  voice,  "See  the  oppressors  and  mur- 
derers of  the  people  are  passing  by.  They  are  going  to 
be  shot.  When  you  are  big,  you  must  show  your 
hatred  for  them  as  your  father  does." 

The  child,  with  its  pretty,  rosy  face,  looked  with  in- 
nocent amazement  at  the  poor  prisoners,  and  recogniz- 
ing its  father  among  the  Communists,  held  out  its  little 
arms  to  him.  The  wretch  look  the  child  and  kissed,  it 
twice.  As  he  did  so  he  heard  a  sob  just  behind  him, 
and  turning  saw  the  big  tears  rolling  down  the  bronzed 
face  of  a  soldier. 

"  My  children,  my  poor  children !"  cried  the  gen- 
darme, 

"  See !"  said  the  child,  "  that  poor  man  is  crying. 
Why  is  he  crying,  papa  ?" 

"  Because  he  is  going  to  be  shot  in  the  name  of  the 
Commune  !"  answered  the  father. 

The  child,  not  understanding,  made  a  movement  as  if 
to  wipe  away  the  tears  from  the  man's  eyes.  But  the 
mother,  seizing  the  child  roughly,  was  soon  lost  in  the 
crowd.  Meanwhile  the  bystanders  laughed  and  jested 
upon  the  probable  demeanor  of  the  accused  when  they 
were  really  face  to  face  with  death.  An  old  priest  fell 
down.  He  was  dragged  up  brutally,  amid  a  shower  of 
blows;  but,  accepting  the  arm  of  a  soldier,  he  went  on 
bravely,  fearing  to  appear  irresolute. 


liiWiiaiBiiTii^ 


I  by  the  calm  recollec- 
:  to  disturb  the  peace 
rords,  and  even  blows, 
/as  interrupted  by  an 
)men,  who  might  have 
wearing  red  cockades 
isults  upon  the  priests, 
se  miserable  creatures 
on  her  shoulder,  cried 

oppressors  and  mur- 
by.  They  are  going  to 
you  must  show  your 
es. 

yr  face,  looked  with  in- 
risoncrs,  and  recogniz- 
lists,  held  out  its  little 
he  child  and  kissed,  it 

sob  just  behind  him, 
ling  down  the  bronzed 

ircn !"  cried    the   gen- 

poor  man   is  crying. 

>t  in  the  name  of  the 

nade  a  movement  as  if 
;  man's  eyes.  But  the 
r,  was  soon  lost  in  the 
rs  laughed  and  jested 
he  accused  when  they 
ith.  An  old  priest  fell 
Lily,  amid  a  shower  of 
'  a  soldier,  he  went  on 
ite. 


JEAN   MACIIU. 


251 


The  sad  procession  proceeded  along  the  Rue  de  Paris, 
where  it  is  crossed  to  the  right  by  the  Rue  Haxo.  TIk; 
spot  appointed  for  the  massacre  was  the  Cit6  Vincennes. 
the  entrance  to  which  was  at  No.  83,  Rue  Haxo.  They 
reached  this  place,  which  was  well  known  to  malefactors 
of  all  sorts,  by  crossing  a  small  kitchen  garden,  and  a 
large  courtyard,  stretching  out  in  front  of  a  large  de- 
tached building,  dingy  in  appearance,  where  the  insur- 
gents had  established  their  headquarters.  Somewhat  to 
the  left  was  a  second  enclosure,  which  before  the  war 
had  been  intended  to  be  used  as  a  hall  for  Ixil  cham- 
p^tres.  A  basement,  around  which  the  vine-clad  trellis- 
work  of  this  despoiled  pleasure-ground  was  to  have  run, 
rose  breast-high  before  one  of  the  walls.  Between  this 
wall  and  the  basement  was  a  sort  of  trench,  some  ten  to 
eighteen  feet  broad.  A  moderately  large  .^ir  hole  opened 
into  a  cellar,  which  occupied  the  centre. 

When  the  hostages  reached  the  Cit6  Vincennes  they 
expected  to  be  shot  at  once.  But  the  leaders  who  were 
to  assist  at  the  murder  were  not  to  be  found.  Or  per- 
haps they  simply  desired  to  prolong  the  martyrs'  agony. 
One  of  the  Communists  suggested  that  they  should  be 
temporarily  shut  up  in  the  cellar.  This  motion  was 
received  with  general  approbation. 

The  insurgents  hurrica  the  condemned  through  a 
gloomy  hall,  down  a  noisome  staircase,  and  into  a  large 
cellar,  which  received  light  and  air  from  a  vent  hole 
opening  on  the  street.  They  had  not  even  a  wisp  of 
straw  upon  which  they  could  stretch  themselves  while 
awaiting  the  supreme  moment.  The  priests  knelt  down 
and  began  to  recite  the  Psalms.  This  brought  a  hideous 
crowd  to  the  air  hole.  Men  and  women  thrust  their 
faces  against  the  iron  bars,  seeking  by  the  most  horrible 
langruage  to  distract,  torment  or  disturb  the  prisoners* 
dying  moments.    Their  sublime  fortitude  awakened  in 


'wtmitmmmmsiuimsiasssNmm 


wemmsiBmmmmmmgm 


3S2 


mors. 


them  a  sort  of  admiration,  even  as  it  roused  their  hatred 
to  fury.  But  neither  taunt  nor  Insult  had  power  to 
trouble  the  ears  of  those  who  wero  so  soon  to  die. 
Heaven  seemed  too  near;  they  forgot  the  vileness  <  f 
eartli.  The  more  their  botlies  suffered,  the  higher  rose 
their  souls,  victorious  over  fear  and  sorrow,  till  they  found 
their  God.  Among  those  who  crowded  the  strrets  and 
rejoiced  at  the  bloody  tragedy,  enjoyed  in  anticipation, 
were  many  of  Methusalem's  'requenters.  Not  that  they 
had  forsaken  the  Rue  Git-ie-Coeur,  bu^  the  Naine,  its 
maid  of  all  ork,  willing  to  d  her  share  5or  the  public 
weal,  had  established  a  cr  :iteen  on  the  Rue  Haxo.  Upon 
her  counter  were  displayed  black  coffee,  brandy  and 
other  invigorating  beverages,  even  to  vitriol,  and  all 
suited  to  the  varioui  tastes  '  .  her  customers.  This 
monstrous  being,  eager  to  His  .  y  her  convictions,  had 
assumed  a  flaring  red  aprcn,  reachinfr  from  her  chin 
to  the  shoes  which  .  vred  her  mis'  pen  feet.  She 
laughed,  she  sang,  she  lanced,  repeating  phrases  from 
the  "P^re  Duchesne,"  predicting  the  triumph  of  the 
Rouge,  and  inciting  the  last  defenders  of  the  Coi  unune 
to  blow  up  Paris. 

"  Are  you  afraid,  boys,"  she  said,  "  or  is  material  want- 
ing.' Will  you  wait  till  those  sneaks  of  Versaillists  have 
you  in  their  claws?  You  needn't  expect  much  mercy 
then!  But  it's  not  ten  or  twenty  of  these  dogs  of  calotim 
you  should  shoot,  but  crowds  of  them.  Fire  a  bomb,  and 
then  fire  another,  till  the  last  of  these  devil's  preachers 
are  lying  there  to  rot.  What's  the  use  of  turning 
churches  into  barracks  if  you  don't  do  away  with  God  ? 
You  pn.ni'csed  you  would.  Down  with  the  rich,  with 
soldiers;  a  id  priests!  We  wa  it  republicans.  No  time  like 
the  present.  Roll  your  poi>/der  barrels  into  the  gutter, 
put  a  match  to  them,  and  then  for  a  dancit.  Who  loves 
a  dance  as  much  as  I  ?" 


JKAN   MACIlO. 


253 


IS  it  roused  their  hatred 
r  insult  had  power  to 
were  so  soon  to  die. 
forgot  the  vileness  <  * 
uffered,  the  higher  rose 
J  sorrow,  till  they  found 
rowded  the  strrets  and 
njoyed  in  anticipation, 
lenters.  Not  that  they 
Bur,  bu^  the  Naine,  its 
;r  share  5or  the  public 
I  the  Rue  Haxo.  Upon 
ck  coflfee,  brandy  and 
ven    to  vitriol,  and  all 

her   customers.     This 

y  her  convictions,  had 

eachinnf  from  her  chin 

mis'  pen  feet.  .She 
epeating  phrases  from 
g  the  triumph  of  the 
nders  of  the  Coi  unune 

1,  "  or  is  material  want- 
aks  of  Versaillists  have 
't  expect  much  mercy 
f  these  dogs  of  cahtim 
lem.  Fire  a  bomb,  and 
these  devil's  preachers 
s  the  use  of  turning 
I't  do  away  with  God  ? 
rn  with  the  rich,  with 
ublicans.  No  time  like 
arrets  into  the  gutter, 
r  a  dance.    Who  loves 


"Never  tired  joking,  Naine,"  said  a  man  in   the  uni- 
form of  the  Vengeurs  of  the  Commune. 

"Oh,  it's  you  is  it,  Jean  Machft  ?"  said  the  Naine;  "  what 
will  you  take  ?" 

"  Something  strong,  as  strong  as  you  have  it,"  said  he. 

The  Naine  poured  him  out  a  tumbler  of  brandy. 

"  To  your  health,  Naine,"  said  he;  "  but  come,  keep  me 
company." 

"  Your  treat  ?"  asked  she. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Machfl;  "you  sell  your  wares,  but 
you  don't  consume  them." 

The  Naine  filled  a  second  glass,  clinking  it  against 
that  of  the  felon. 

"  To  your  speedy  marriage,  Naine,"  said  Machd. 

The  Naine  laid  down  the  glass. 

"It's  no  jesting  matter,  Jean,"  said  she;'"  there's  none 
would  have  Methusalem's  servant." 

"You  think  so?" 

"  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"  You're  not  so  sure,  though,  but  there's  one  you'd  like 
to  have,"  said  Machd,  grinning. 

A  flush  passed  over  the  hideous  face. 

"  What  put  that  into  your  head  ?"  said  she. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Commander  of  the  Vengeurs  of  the 
Commune,  "never  you  mind;  but  I  met  one  the  other 
day  that  you're  very  fond  of." 

"  Methusalem  ?" 

"  No,  you  are  his  servant,  but  you're  not  in  love  with 
him  for  all  that." 

"  Well,  who  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Fleur  d'Echafaud !" 

"You  saw  himf*  she  cried,  bending  over  the  counter 
eagerly. 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 


^mmssmsi. 


IDOLS. 


"  At  the  prefecture.     He's  in  the  Vengeurs." 

*'  Oh,  if  the  Versaillists  catch  him,"  she  cried. 

"  He  will  scarcely  have  time  to  marry  you,  Naine!" 

"It's  no  joking  matter,"  she  said  almost  fiercely;  "if 
they  take  him  they'll  kill  him." 

"  The  very  notion  that  he's  in  danger-  makes  you  show 
your  teeth  and  claws,"  said  Machil,  laughing.  "  I  told 
you  so." 

"And  you're  a  fool  for  your  pains,"  said  she,  sullenly. 
"  I  don't  want  him  to  be  taken,  it's  true.  But  I  am  the 
only  one,  do  you  hear,  Jean  Machii,  the  only  one  that 
knows  why  his  life's  precious  to  me." 

"  You  ought  to  have  more  confidence  in  yoiir  friends," 
said  MachQ,  still  jesting. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  now  ?"  she  said,  quickly. 

"  How  can  we  know  from  day  to  day  what  becomes  of 
people  ?"  said  he.  "  The  gun  does  its  work  quickly.  You 
and  I,  Naine,  may  be  dead  to-morrow." 

"  Once  I've  seen  the  end  of  those  gibbering  fools  that 
are  braying  their  litanies  in  the  cellar,"  said  she,  "  I'll 
just  be  off  to  Methusalem's.  If  Fleur  d'Echafaud  wants 
a  hiding-place  send  him  to  me.  I  know  one.  You  are 
welcome  to  it,  too,  Rat-de-Cave." 

"That's  not  my  stamp,  Naine," said  Rat-de-Cave,  with 
sudden  gravity.  "  I'll  never  hide.  I'll  be  behind  the  last 
barricades  with  the  last  Vengeurs  of  the  Commune,  and 
I  swear  the  Versaillists'll  never  get  me  alive.  I'll  defend 
my  skin  all  I  can;  but  once  the  game's  up,  I'll  make  an 
end  of  myself." 

Just  then  there  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd  to  make  way 
for  a  young  man  in  a  dazzling  uniform  glittering  with 
gold  lace.  He  belonged  to  Bergeret's  En/ants  Perdus. 
Jean  Machd  looked  round  to  see  what  was  going  on, 
and  the  Naine  mounted  among  the  bottles  and  glasses 
on  her  counter.     Her  eyes  hastily  scanned  the  crowd. 


■■jBi  1^^ 


le  Vengeurs." 
im,"  she  cried, 
marry  you,  Naine!" 
aid  almost  fiercely;  "  if 

anger-makes  you  show 
hii,  laughing.     "  I  told 

tins,"  said  she,  sullenly. 

t's  true.     But  I  am  the 

Lchii,  the  only  one  that 

ne." 

idence  in  yoiir  friends," 

V  ?"  she  said,  quickly. 

:o  day  what  becomes  of 

;  its  work  quickly.    You 

rrow." 

»se  gibbering  fools  that 

cellar,"  said  she,  "  I'll 
'leur  d'Echafaud  wants 

I  know  one.    You  are 

said  Rat-de-Cave,  with 
I'll  be  behind  the  last 
r  of  the  Commune,  and 
et  me  alive.  I'll  defend 
;ame's  up,  I'll  make  an 

the  crowd  to  make  way 
iniform  glittering  with 
geret's  En/ants  Ferdus. 
e  what  was  going  on, 
the  bottles  and  glasses 
ily  scanned  the  crowd. 


JEAN  MACHU. 


255 


and  all  at  once  lit  up  with  a  sort  of  fierce  exultation  as 
she  muttered, 

"Fleur  d'Echafaud." 

Hastily  descending,  she  resumed  her  place  at  the 
counter. 

Jean  MachQ  meanwhile  advanced  to  shake  hands  with 
the  new-comer. 

"  Well,  Marc  Mauduit,"  said  he,  "  what's  going  on 
down  yonder  ?" 

"The  Versaillists  are  taking  barricade  after  barri- 
cade," said  Mauduit;  "  our  soldiers  are  being  defeated  at 
every  point." 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  fight  ?" 

"  I  came  to  look  about  me,"  said  Mauduit,  "  and  to 
make  sure  of  some  hiding-place." 

"  You  came  to  the  right  spot  this  time,v'  said  Machd. 
"Some  one  was  speaking  of  you  just  now." 

"  Who's  that  ?" 

"  The  Naine.     She  knows  a  hiding-place." 

"That  will  be  good  for  to-morrow,"  said  Fleur 
d'Echafaud. 

"  I  think  you  might  have  the  grace  to  thank  her/' 
said  Machfi. 

So  the  brilliant  young  man  approached  the  counter, 
and  accepted  a  cup  of  coffee  from  the  Naine. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  need  you." 

"  Ah  !"  said  she,  "  you  will  need — " 

"Any  disguise  you  like  and  a. safe  shelter." 

"  The  disguise  will  be  ready  in  an  hour,  and  the  hiding- 
place— Git-le-Coeur." 

"  But  Methusalem  might  bietray  me  ?" 

"He  would  if  he  dared,"  said  she,  "but  he  dares 
not." 

"  Who  will  prevent  him  ?" 

"I  will." 


'^T»&^;i^'«iVl-l"^.S-,.fe-t'?-T.UiJ*!S 


35^ 


IIJOLS. 


"You!"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  laughing  heartily. 

"  Yes,  I,"  said  the  Naine.  "  Because  I  watched  over  you 
like  a  mother  you  think  me  only  capable  of  love,  and 
that  I  could  not  hate.  You  are  wrong,  boy,  you  are 
wrong.  My  hatred  is  terrible.  I  brood  and  brood  over 
it  till  it  bursts  out." 

"  It's  so  very  droll,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  laughing 
still  more  immoderately. 

"  Droll !"  cried  she;  "  you  think  my  hatred  a  thing  to 
laugh  at." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  because  everything  about  you  is 
ridiculous,  my  poor  Fantoche.  You  are  not  a  woman  and 
cannot  have  a  woman's  feelings.  Nature  made  you  a 
monster,  and  a  monster  you  will  always  be." 

She  fixed  such  a  glance  on  him  as  would  have  terrified 
any  one  else. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  slowly,  "  never  incur  the  hatred  of 
Fantoche,  for  you  would  find  it  terrible." 

A  solemn,  mournful  sound  just  then  reached  their 
ears.  It  was  the  prisoners  singing  the  Miserere.  This 
cry  for  mercy,  comii\g  as  it  did  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  in  the  voices  of  men  hourly  awaiting  execution, 
had  so  peculiar  a  grandeur  that  the  bloodthirsty, 
drunken  populace  involuntarily  shuddered.  Surely  the 
victims  were  stronger  than  their  persecutors.  A  Com- 
munist soldier  seized  his  gun,  pointed  the  barrel  of  it 
through  the  bars,  and  fired  into  the  cellar,  saying, 

"  That  will  make  them  shut  up." 

A  groan  was  heard;  one  of  the  condemned  had  fallen. 
But  this  cowardly  act  only  seemed  to  revive  their 
courage,  and  the  last  versicles  of  the  psalm  arose  more 
solemn  and  imploring  than  ever.  It  was  literally  out  of 
the  depths,  that  cry  unto  the  Lord. of  "Miserere!  Mis- 
erere !" 

As  day  waned  the  crowd  instead  of  diminishing  grew 


i,  laughing  heartily, 
cause  I  watched  over  you 
nly  capable  of  love,  and 
re  wrong,  boy,  you  are 
I  brood  and  brood  over 

Lir  d'Echafaud,  laughing 

nk  my  hatred  a  thing  to 

erything  about    you    is 
You  are  not  a  woman  and 
fs.     Nature  made  you  a 
I  always  be." 
n  as  would  have  terrified 

!ver  incur  the  hatred  of 
terrible." 

just  then  reached  their 
fing  the  Miserere.  This 
from  the  bowels  of  the 
urly  awaiting  execution, 
that  the  bloodthirsty, 
shuddered.  Surely  the 
ir  persecutors.  A  Com- 
pointed  the  barrel  of  it 
the  cellar,  saying, 

p." 

le  condemned  had  fallen. 

seemed  to  revive  their 
f  the  psalm  arose  more 
It  was  literally  out  of 
^ord.  of  "  Miserere  !  Mis- 
sad  of  diminishing  grew 


JEAN  MACHO. 


257 


greater.  The  combatants  of  the  barricades  and  fugitives 
of  all  sorts  flocked  thither,  where  there  were  still  arms  to 
load,  houses  to  burn,  crimes  to  commit.  Many  of  them, 
tracked  from  street  to  street,  and  from  house  to  house, 
asked  only  a  corner  of  ground  where  they  could  die,  cry- 
ing "Vive  la  Commune  !"  The  intoxication  of  anger  or 
strong  drink  lent  courage  to  the  one  half,  while  the 
other  trembled  at  the  fate  which  awaited  them.  The  first 
paraded  such  of  their  quarters  as  were  threatened  but 
not  yet  invaded,  while  the  second  hastily  cut  their  hair 
or  beard,  assumed  various  disguises,  tore  the  red  stripe 
from  their  trousers,  and  broke  the  arms  which  would 
have  doubly  compromised  them,  first  because  they  were 
stolen,  second  because  they  were  stained  with  blood. 

When  it  was  night  the  Naine  carried  her  table,  bottles 
and  her  stove  into  an  empty  shop  close  by,  and  with- 
out even  thinking  of  sleep,  continued  dealing  out  her 
wares,  and  seasoning  her  sales  with  the  sinister  language 
of  the  knitting- women  of  the  Commune.  The  spacious 
apartment  was  soon  filled  with  the  birds  of  ill  omen  who 
prowl  about  at  night,  thieves  by  profession,  young  men 
more  carefully  dressed,  the  pillars  of  smoking-rooms  and 
public  balls,  half -drunken  Communist  soldiers,  hiccough- 
ing out  mutual  exhortations  to  die  for  the  Commune,  and 
borrowing  from  each  other  in  the  name  of  sacred  equality. 

The  distant  growling  of  the  cannon  was  as  an  undertone 
to  all  this.  In  proportion  as  its  sound  drew  nearer,  they 
knew  that  the  regular  army  was  gaining  Paris  inch 
by  inch.  At  length,  spite  of  anger,  hatred  and  fear, 
sleep  overcame  some  of  the  motley  gathering  in  the 
Maine's  shop.  She  herself  nodded  over  the  counter, 
whilst  Fleur  d'Echafaud  and  Rat-de-Cave  spoke  to- 
gether of  their  near  future. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  "I  have  had 
enough  of  the  Commune  and  the  rights  of  the  people. 


258 


IDOLS. 


It's  all  very  fine,  but  dangerous.  It  sounds  well  at  the 
club  or  in  the  newspapers  to  advance  such  ideas,  bi't  to 
sustain  them  with  helmet  on  head  and  revolver  in  haiul 
is  another  thing.  I  have  v^nly  twenty-four  hours  more  to 
wear  my  uniform,  so  covered  with  gold  lace  that  it  took 
half  the  money  from  the  Pomereul  safe  to  pay  for  it. 
Once  to-morrow's  drama  is  played  I  will  make  trad; s. 
and  turn  up  again  after  some  time  as  Marc  Mauduit,  V.n-. 
model  secretary.     What  about  you  ?" 

"  My  way  is  different,"  said  Rat-de-Cave,  brusquely. 
"  Cannons  have  been  put  in  Pere  la  Chaise.  I'll  servo 
the  last  of  them." 

"  Why  not  try  to  save  yourself  ?"  asked  Mauduit. 

"  What  use  ?  What  would  I  do  afterwards  ?"  said  the 
felon. 

"  What  you  have  always  done,"  said  Mauduit. 

"  Steal  and  murder  ?"  said  Machd.  , 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  destined  for  an  embassy,  it's 
true,"  said  Mauduit,  sneeringly. 

"To  steal,  to  kill,"  said  Jean  Maehfl,  gloomily. 
"Always  the  same  thing;  besides,  they  leave  thoughts 
sometimes  that  are  like — " 

"  What  can  your  thoughts  be  like  ?"  said  Fleur  d'Echa- 
faud. 

"  Remorse,"  said  Jean  Machd,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  You  know  remorse  ?    You  ?"  cried  Mauduit. 

"Call  it  what  you  like,"  said  Machfl.  "  I  know  what  it 
is  to  pass  sleepless  nights,  and  always  to  see  the  face  of 
a  man  accusing  you.  I  know  what  it  is  to  say,  *  The  air 
I  breathe  is  stolen,  my  liberty  is  stolen,  and  another  is 
paying  the  debt  I  owe  to  Justice.' " 

"  Amen  !"  said  Fleur  d'Echafaud. 

He  leaned  both  hands  upon  the  table,  as  if  weary  of 
tne  subject,  and  buried  his  face.  But  the  Naine,  in  her 
sleep,  uttered  a  name: 


It  sounds  well  at  the 
ance  such  ideas,  bi't  to 
id  and  revolver  in  hantl 
inty-four  hours  more  to 
h  gold  lace  that  it  took 
reul  safe  to  pay  for  it. 
^^ed  I  will  make  trad; ;. 
le  as  Marc  Mauduit,  the 
)u  ?•• 

lat-de-Cave,  brusquely, 
e  la  Chaise.     I'll  serve 

?"  asked  Mauduit. 

3  afterwards  ?"  said  the 

'  said  Mauduit. 

hfl.  , 

led  for  an  embassy,  it's 

;an    MachA,    gloomily. 
:s,  they  leave  thoughts 

ke  ?"  said  Fleur  d'Echa- 

n  a  hollow  voice. 
cried  Mauduit. 
achfi.    "  I  know  what  it 
ways  to  see  the  face  of 
at  it  is  to  say,  *  The  air 
stolen,  and  another  is 


le  table,  as  if  weary  of 
But  the  Naine,  in  her 


JEAN  MACIIU. 


259 


"  Louise,  my  dear  Louise." 

Her  sleep  seemed  troubled.     Again  she  spoke: 

"  You  shall  be  avenged,  Louise;  you  shall  be  avenged  !" 

Fleur  d'Echafaud  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 
She  was  hideous;  there  was  foam  about  her  lips,  her 
nostrils  were  dilating,  her  brow  furrowed  with  wrinkles. 
Fleur  d'Echafaud  almost  fancied  that  she  pronounced 
tlie  name  of  Andr6  Nicois,  but  he  thought  himself  mis- 
taken. What  link  could  exist  between  the  rich  banker 
and  the  deformed  creature,  who  had  begun  by  being  the 
attraction  of  couwtry  fairs,  and  now  served  the  kitchen 
of  Methusalem  ? 

Night  passed.  At  dawn  the  voices  of  the  priests,  some- 
what more  feeble,  were  heard  again.  All  night  long 
they  had  prayed  the  prayers  for  the  dying.  Priests  and 
gendarmes  alike,  awaiting  the  carrying  out  of  their 
terrible  sentence,  were  of  one  mind  and  one  heart. 
They  had  but  one  hope.  The  condemned  soldiers  knelt 
before  the  priests,  who,  exercising  their  divine  ministry, 
prepared  them  more  and  more  for  death.  The  hostages 
had  been  left  entirely  without  food,  and  hunger  was 
added  to  their  other  torments.  Morning  brought  again 
to  the  k^r  hoi?  those  who  impatiently  awaited  the  hour 
of  the  sacrifice.  They  felt  that  the  progress  of  the  army 
gave  them  scarcely  time  for  this  last  crime,  and  that 
they  had  need  of  haste.  However,  whether  because  of 
the  anxiety  caused  by  the  resolute  advance  of  the  Ver- 
saillists  who  were  taking  Paris,  street  by  street,  house  by 
house,  or  from  some  other  cause,  the  fatal  order  was 
delayed. 

Nearly  another  day  passed  in  suspense. 

At  last  a  young  man  wearing  the  red  scarf  of  a 

delegate  of  the  Commune  came  to  the  headquarters  at 

,  the  Cit6  Vincennes,  with  instructions  for  detachments  of 

Communists  belonging  to  a  battalion  of  the  Eleventh 


»3n> 


K^^muiimiBNtmmmmmB 


z6o 


IDOLS. 


District,  and  a  battalion  of  the  Fifth  District.  Imme- 
diately after  some  of  Bergeret's  Enfants  Perdus  went 
down  into  the  cellar,  and  ordered  the  prisoners  to  come 
up.  They  obeyed  without  thought  of  resistance.  Faith 
shed  its  ineffable  calm  over  them,  and  the  priests  gave  a 
final  benediction  to  the  soldiers,  who  walked  to  death  as 
firmly  as  to  battle. 

At  sight  of  the  prisoners  cheers  of  savage  joy  were 
heard,  and  the  soldiers  could  scarcely  keep  back  the 
crowd.  Not  that  they  cared  to  protect  the  victims,  but 
they  feared  lest  in  the  tumult  some  should  escape.  The 
enclosure  whither  they  were  hurried  was  already  occupied 
by  the  staff  of  different  battalions.  The  fifty  hostages  and 
their  executioners  filled  what  was  left  of  that  narrow  space. 
A  portion  of  the  crowd  found  it  impossible  to  assist  at 
this  last  act  of  barbarity.  The  hostages  were  placed 
against  the  wall,  and  a  squad  of  soldiers,  with  loaded 
muskets,  stood  ready  to  fire  on  the  word  of  command. 

Sulpice  embraced  his  brother  priests,  exchanging  with 
them  what  was  indeed  the  kiss  of  peace  of  the  primitive 
Church,  which  at  the  conclusion  of  the  love-feasts  was 
given  those  about  to  die. 

Just  as  the  Abb6  Pomereul  turned  from  the  embrace 
of  an  old  priest  who  had  clasped  him  in  his  arms,  two 
men  covered  with  gold  lace  and  bearing  swords  pushed 
their  way  resolutely  through  the  crowd  to  obtain  a 
position  in  the  front  rank  of  spectators. 

"The  Commandant  Machfl  and  Colonel  Marc  Mau- 
duit,"  whispered  the  crowd,  making  way  for  them 
respectfully. 

Scarcely  had  Machii  come  face  to  face  with  those  who 
were  about  to  be  shot,  and  scanned  their  faces  with  a 
rapid  glance,  when  he  sprang  forward  with  the  agility  of 
a  tiger,  and  covered  one  of  them  with  his  own  body. 

The  soldiers  who  had  just  raised  their  muskets  paused, 


,3*3^ 


I  Fifth  District.  Imme- 
;'s  En/ants  Perdus  went 
:d  the  prisoners  to  come 
jht  of  resistance.  Faith 
1,  and  the  priests  gave  a 
who  walked  to  death  as 

ers  of  savage  joy  were 
scarcely  keep  back  the 
protect  the  victims,  but 
tne  should  escape.  The 
ied  was  already  occupied 
The  fifty  hostages  and 
left  of  that  narrow  space, 
impossible  to  assist  at 
B  hostages  were  placed 
)f  soldiers,  with  loaded 
he  word  of  command, 
jriests,  exchanging  with 
f  peace  of  the  primitive 
I  of  the  love-feasts  was 

irned  from  the  embrace 

1  him  in  his  arms,  two 

bearing  swords  pushed 

he  crowd  to  obtain  a 

tators. 

id  Colonel  Marc  Mau- 

naking   way  for  them 

to  face  with  those  who 
ined  their  faces  with  a 
ward  with  the  agility  of 
with  his  own  body, 
d  their  muskets  paused, 


JEAN   MACIIU. 


361 


and  the  officer  in  command  advancing  to  Machfl,  who 
was  interrupting  the  justice  of  the  people  in  a  manner  so 
extraordinary,  said, 

"  Commandant,  the  moment  of  execution  is  come." 

The  Abb6  Sulpice's  defender  turning  quickly  faced 
the  crowd,  saying  to  the  officers  and  soldiers  who  drew 
near  with  irrepressible  curiosity, 

"  I  must  have  this  man's  life.     I  must  have  it !" 

"Yoo  must  have  a  fearful  score  to  settle  with  him, 
Commandant,"  said  a  soldier,  "  if  the  justice  of  the 
people  won't  answer  you." 

Sulpice  in  amazement  recognized  the  man  who  had 
come  between  him  and  death. 

"Jean  Mach(i !"  he  cried,  involuntarily. 

"Yes;  I  want  his  life,"  pursued  Jean  Machfl,  the  felon. 

"  You  want  to  let  a  priest,  a  deceiver  of  the  people, 
escape  from  justice  ?    Never !"  cried  the  crowd. 

"  He  saved  me,"  said  Jean  MachA,  hoarsely.  "  I'll  not 
be  in  his  debt." 

"  Shoot  the  caloiinr  cried  a  child. 

Fleur  d'Echafaud  whispered  in  his  comrade's  ear, 

"Are  you  mad  ?    Once  he  dies  we're  safe." 

"  Death  to  him  !  death  to  him  !"  cried  the  crowd. 

"Comrades,"  said  Machd,  "you  know  me.  I  showed 
my  patriotism  well.  I  set  fire  to  the  Finance  buildings, 
when  the  telegram  came  from  Ferr^.  I  was  there  when 
we  shot  the  archbishop.  I've  been  all  the  week  from 
one  barricade  to  another  The  friends  of  the  people 
Delescluze  and  Milliere,  were  my  friends.  I'm  ready  to 
fire  the  last  gun  with  you,  but  for  my  services  I  want 
this  man's  life." 

"  So  that  he  can  sell  you  later  on,  and  get  you  shot  by 
the  Versaillists. " 

"  If  he  promises  not  to  betray  me,"  said  Machfl,  "  he'll 
keep  his  promisei." 


BW^UMijM^dKaVWHMfinnSKKMMKSmti 


262 


IDOLS. 


"  He,  a  Jesuit,  a  eahtin  /" 

"You  don't  know  what  his  word's  worth,"  said  Machfl. 
"  I  am  a  Communist,  and  a  ruffian,  and  a  robber  besides." 

"You  flatter  yourself,  Commandant,"  said  a  voice. 

"I  pillaged  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette,"  pursued  he.  "I 
helped  to  put  a  blaze  to  the  eld  cathedral.  I  have 
robbed  God  and  men.  This  priest  knew  all  about  it,  and 
he  never  said  a  word." 

"He  was  afraid  of  revenge,"  said  some  one  in  the 
crowd. 

"  Not  he,"  said  Machd  "  You  see  he  does  not  tremble 
even  now  before  you." 

There  were  cries  of  "  Back,  Commandant !"  "  Clear 
the  way  !"    "  MachO  is  a  traitor !" 

"MachA's  not  afraid  of  any  of  you,"  said  the  Com- 
mandant of  the  Vengeurs  of  the  Commune.  "  The  first 
who  makes  a  step  forward  is  a  dead  man." 

The  felon  cocked  his  pistol  and  waited.   No  one  stirred. 

"  His  life,"  said  Machfl.    "  Will  you  give  me  his  life  ?" 

"  Never !"  cried  they. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story,"  said  Machfl. 
"Just  now  it  doesn't  much  matter  having  one  or  two 
things  more  or  less  on  our  conscience.  We  may  all  be 
dead  to-morrow.  I  not  only  committed  crimes  for  the 
general  good,  but  I  robbed  this  man's  father.  I  took  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  out  of  his  safe." 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  several  voices. 

"  He  knew  it,  and  never  let  up  on  me." 

A  murmur  passed  through  the  crowd  as  Jean  MachA 
continued,  still  screening  Sulpice  with  his  own  body: 

"  I  killed  his  father,  and  he  didn't  give  me  up." 

A  murmur  of  incredulity  was  now  heard  in  the  various 
g^ups. 

"  No,"  said  Machd;  "  he  didn't  give  me  up,  because  the 
secret  of  confession  sealed  his  lips.    You  cry  out  against 


J 


I's  worth,"  said  Machfl. 
,  and  a  robber  besides." 
iant,"  said  a  voice, 
rette,"  pursued  he.  "I 
>ld  cathedral.  I  have 
t  knew  all  about  it,  and 

said  some  one  in  the 

see  he  does  not  tremble 

>mmandant !"     "  Clear 

t 

'  you,"  said  the  Com- 
^ommune.  "The  first 
id  man." 

vaited.  No  one  stirred, 
you  give  me  his  life  ?" 

B  story,"  said  MachO. 
:er  having  one  or  two 
ience.  We  may  all  be 
imitted  crimes  for  the 
an's  father.  I  took  a 
is  safe." 

)n  me." 

crowd  as  Jean  MachA 

nrith  his  own  body: 

't  give  me  up." 

w  heard  in  the  various 

:ive  me  up,  because  the 
You  cry  out  against 


JEAN  MACHO. 


263 


¥al^fl^^^^^ 


priests,  but  I  respect  them.  I've  done  many  a  bad  deed 
in  my  day,  but  I  want  to  save  this  man  to  show  my 
gratitude.  You  must  either  kill  both  of  us  or  neither. 
Once  he's  in  safety  I'll  come  back  to  die  with  you." 

The  Abb6  Sulpice  tried  to  detach  himself  from  the 
felon's  grasp. 

•'  Leave  me  to  die,"  he  said;  "  martyrdom  is  the  noblest 
death  for  which  I  can  ever  hope.  God  in  His  mercy 
will  take  account  of  the  efforts  you  have  made  to  save 
me.  Do  nof  force  me  to  desert  my  brethren.  You  have 
spoken  some  dangerous  words,  but  they  will  be  forgotten 
if  you  leave  me  to  the  hatred  of  my  enemies." 

"  No,"  said  MachA;  "  if  they're  obstinate  about  it  we'll 
die  together.     But  they  daren't  fire." 

As  if  to  contradict  this  assertion  the  officer  cried  out, 
"  Present  arms  !"  v 

Once  more  Sulpice  tried  to  escape  from  his  deliverer 
and  rejoin  his  friends. 

The  soldiers  of  the  Eleventh  battalion  made  a  rush  for- 
ward, like  a  tumultuous  wave  flowing  in  on  the  strand. 

MachA  felt  his  coat  pulled;  he  looked  down:  it  was 
the  Naine.  She  made  a  mysterious  sign  to  him,  and 
held  out  a  plain  dark  cloak,  and  as  she,  with  a  group  of 
furious  women  eager  to  see  the  last  act  in  the  bloody 
drama,  pushed  into  the  front  row,  MachA  wrapped  the 
abb6  in  the  cloak  and  drew  him  aside,  whispering  hastily, 

"  Think  of  your  sister." 

These  words  went  to  his  heart,  and  Machii,  profiting  by 
his  momentary  irresolution,  and  aided  by  the  diversion 
which  the  Naine  had  purposely  created,  dragged  Sulpice 
into  the  old  cemetery,  thence  into  a  squalid-looking 
house  and  up  the  stairs.  They  had  just  reached  the  top, 
when  a  discharge  of  musketry  proved  that  the  people  of 
Paris  had  committed  the  most  iniquitous  act  of  their 
reign. 


264 


IDOLS. 


Though  sheltered  in  the  house,  the  priest  and  Jean 
MacihA  were  by  no  means  in  safety.  Going  into  an 
empty  room  they  found  some  workmen's  clothes  hang- 
ing on  the  wall.  The  felon  seized  them,  throwing  them 
to  the  priest,  and  crying, 

"Quick,  quick  !  these  brutes  will  follow  us." 

At  the  same  time  he  took  a  handful  of  gold  from  his 
pocket  ii    '  threw  it  down,  adding, 

"That's  for  the  owner  of  the  clothes." 

Sulpice  at  length  decided  to  accept  the  safety  which 
Providence  seemed  to  impose  on  him.  He  hastily 
donned  the  blue  blouse  and  overalls,  and  putting  a 
cap  on  his  head,  was  so  completely  disguised  that  no  one 
could  have  recognized  him. 

"  Come,"  said  Machfl. 

They  went  down  cautiously.  The  house  had  two 
exits.  With  the  keen  scent  of  a  thief,  and  the  agi'.ity  of  a 
burglar,  Machft  opened  a  door,  climbed  a  little  wall,  and 
assisted  the  Abb6  Pomereul  to  do  the  same. 

All  this  had  been  accomplished  so  quickly  that  the 
savage  crew  without  had  scarcely  yet  discovered  what 
had  transpired.  They  were  still  gloating  over  the  writh- 
ing forms  of  their  victims. 

Meanwhile  the  Abb6  Sulpice  and  Machfl  had  reached 
a  deserted  part  of  Paris,  where  the  Commune  no  longer 
had  sway. 

•'  Go,"  said  the  Vengeur  of  the  Commune.  "  The  Ver- 
saillists  are  there  to  protect  you.  After  this  you  can 
think  of  me  without  cursing  me." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  abb6,  "  if  you  would  only  come  with 
me  and  amend  your  life." 

"  It's  too  late,"  said  MachQ.  "  I'm  going  to  play  the 
last  act." 

With  a  sort  of  despairing  energy  he  wrung  the  merci- 
ful hand  held  out  to  him,  and  ran  off., 


THE   UARRICADES  OF   DEATH. 


36s 


ic,  the  priest  and  Jean 
lafety.  Going  into  nii 
Drkmen's  clothes  hang- 
d  them,  throwing  them 

Mil  follow  us." 

ndful  of  gold  from  his 

?. 
othes." 

iccept  the  safety  which 
on  him.  He  hastily 
/eralls,  and  putting  a 
y  disguised  that  no  one 


The  house  had  two 
iief,  and  the  agi'.ity  of  a 
imbed  a  little  wall,  and 

>  the  same. 

ed  so  quickly  that  the 
y  yet  discovered  what 
s^loating  over  the  writh- 

nd  Machd  had  reached 
le  Commune  no  longer 

Commune.  "  The  Ver- 
I.     After  this  you  can 

would  only  come  with 

*  I'm  going  to  play  the 

J  he  wrung  the  merci- 

>  off. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
The  Barricades  of  Death. 

The  bloody  tragedy  was  ended. 

The  bodies  of  the  priests  and  gendarmes  were  thrown 
into  a  trench,  and  the  populace,  intoxicated  with  blood, 
rushed  from  the  fatal  spot,  thronging  the  Rue  Haxo, 
Rue  de  Paris,  and  the  Boulevard  des  Amandiers. 

Jean  Machft's  daring  act  would  no  doubt  have  drawn 
upon  him  the  accusation  of  treason  and  the  swift  ven- 
geance of  the  multitude  had  he  not,  immediately  on 
returning  to  the  Communists,  begun  with  indomitable 
energy  and  lightning-like  resolve  to  sketch  out  the  plan 
of  action  for  the  final  struggle.  Their  base  of  operations 
became  more  limited  as  the  liberation  of  Paris  was  grad- 
ually being  accomplished.  They  could  no  longer  con- 
struct barricades  by  tearing  up  the  pavement;  on  the 
contrary,  they  had  to  find  barricades  ready  made,  and  a 
space  sufficient  to  contain  the  proper  number  of  com- 
batants, disposed  in  such  fashion  as  to  maintain  a  des- 
perate struggle.  The  streets  were  being  swept  by  the 
cannon,  cleared  by  charges  of  cavalry,  and  carried  by 
the  infantry.  The  Communists  were  looking  around 
helplessly  for  a  position  in  which  to  intrench*  themselves, 
when  Jean  MachA  reappeared  in  their  midst. 

A  hoarse  murmur  of  reproach  was  heard  at  sight  of 

him. 

" I  know  what  you  have  to  say,"  he  cried.  "I  saved  a 
priest.  But  it  was  my  own  affair,  and  the  first  one  who 
accuses  me  of  treason  to  the  Commune  I'll  blow  out  his 
brains  with  my  revolver.  If  any  of  you  like  the  pros- 
pect, step  out." 


w»^ii»Miwrflw 


266 


IDOLS. 


Machfi's  resolute  air  awed  the  most  during,  and  the 
felon  continued, 

"You're  disheartened;  the  more  shame  for  you!  You 
hear  the  guns  and  know  that  your  turn  s  coming.  For 
people  like  us  the  trial  will  be  short;  they'll  thrust  us 
against  a  wall  and  bang.  Serve  us  right,  too;  but  there 
are  some  of  us  prefer  another  sort  of  thing.  Death  is 
death.  But  it's  better  to  defend  ourselves,  and  give  ball 
for  ball,  stroke  for  stroke.  We  are  conquered,  but  let 
us  die  as  good  patriots  and  true  Communists.  We 
must  fight;  not  in  order  of  battle,  for  that  would  end 
too  quick,  but  like  poachers  in  the  woods,  or  sharp- 
shooters in  the  hedges,  and  the  scene  of  our  last  combat 
I  have  chosen.     Will  you  follow  me  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  cried  a  hundred  voices. 

"  To  Pdre  la  Chaise,  boys.  The  tombstones  will  do 
us  for  barricades." 

"To  P^re  la  Chaise,"  repeated  the  crowd  like  an 
echo. 

MachQ's  idea  was  hailed  as  the  inspiration  of  genius. 
In  an  hour's  time  a  band  of  Communists,  one  and  all  re- 
solved to  meet  death  stoically,  had  possession  of  the 
cemetery;  the  last  guns  of  the  Commune  were  set  up 
there,  and  preparations  made  to  defend  this  last  strong- 
hold of  the  rebels  unto  death.  After  the  many  sacrileges 
they  had  Committed,  the  Communists  consummated  a 
final  one  in  bringing  their  fratricidal  struggle  to  the  city 
of  death.  The  scene  was  more  terrible  than  any  that 
had  preceded  it.  The  soldiers  soon  carried  the  place  by 
assault,  and  the  meUt  became  general.  It  was  rather  a 
massacre  than  a  battle.  The  Communists,  expecting  no 
quarter,  fought  furiously,  and  the  soldiers,  exasperated  by 
their  losses,  enraged  at  having  to  fight  against  such  ruf- 
fians, marked  their  advance  by  the  heaps  of  dead  strewn 
among  the  tombs.    Every  chapel  was  a  fortress.    The 


he  most  during,  and  the 

ore  shame  for  you!  You 
'our  turn  s  coming.  For 
;  short;  they'll  thrust  us 

2  us  right,  too;  but  there 
sort  of  thing.     Death  is 

d  ourselves,  and  give  ball 

e  are  conquered,  but  let 
true  Communists.     We 

attle,  for  that  would  end 

in  the  woods,  or  sharp- 
scene  of  our  last  combat 

V  me  there  ?" 

voices. 

The  tombstones  will  do 

ited   the  crowd   like   an 

le  inspiration  of  genius, 
nmunists,  one  and  all  re- 
',  had  possession  of  the 
!  Commune  were  set  up 

3  defend  this  last  strong- 
\fter  the  many  sacrileges 
nunists  consummated  a 
cidal  struggle  to  the  city 
E  terrible  than  any  that 
oon  carried  the  place  by 
;eneral.  It  was  rather  a 
}mmunists,  expecting  no 
e  soldiers,  exasperated  by 
to  fight  against  such  ruf - 
the  heaps  of  dead  strewn 
)el  was  a  fortress.     The 


THE   BARHICADES   OF  DEATH. 


167 


bullets  flew  fast  and  furious  through  the  windows.  When 
guns  were  broken  the  revolvers  were  used  and  daggers 
drawn.  The  blood-stained  ground  was  slippery  to  the 
feet  of  victor  and  vanquished  alike.  Some  of  the 
wretches  al  length  gave  themselves  up,  but  others  put 
pistols  to  their  heads  to  escape  being  made  prisoners. 
A  band  of  Communists,  hard  pressed,  surrounded,  and 
unuble  longer  to  defend  themselves,  surrendered;  the 
terror  of  immediate  death  seemed  worse  than  the  more 
remote  punishment  of  their  crimes.  Ammunition  failed, 
the  cannon  were  silent,  and  those  who  served  them 
had  fallen  dead  among  the  empty  powder  casks.  A 
single  group  remained,  consisting  of  some  twenty  men, 
headed  by  Jean  MachQ.  As  long  as  he  had  a  cart- 
ridge  he  fired;  when  he  had  no  more  he  seized  his 
revolver  by  the  barrel  and  used  it  as  a  plub.  A  soldier 
snatched  it  from  him,  but  Machd,  picking  up  a  knife 
from  the  ground,  rushed  upon  his  assailant.  He  hoped 
to  gain  at  least  this  one  last  victory;  struck  by  a  ball  in 
the  right  arm,  he  still  fought  with  his  left,  but  a  blow 
from  the  butt  end  of  a  musket  took  him  in  the  chest, 
blood  gushed  from  his  mouth,  his  teeth  were  already 
broken,  and  he  fell  upon  a  heap  of  dead,  wherein  sol- 
diers and  Communists  were  indiscriminately  mingled. 
Four  of  his  companions  took  to  flight,  vainly  hoping  to 
escape;  others  opened  their  coats  and  rushed  forward  to 
meet  the  balls.  A  volley  of  artillery  swept  the  last  of 
them  away.  In  a  few  minutes  all  was  still  in  the  ceme- 
tery; the  prisoners,  with  scowls  of  hatred  and  defiance 
on  their  faces,  and  blasphemies  on  their  lips,  were  led 
away  by  the  soldien..  Somewhat  later  litters  were 
brought  for  the  wounded. 

It  war  dark  night  when  Jean  Machfi  recovered  con- 
sciousness. Bruised  in  every  limb,  a  sabre  gash  upon 
his  forehead  and  his  chest  crushed  in  by  the  last  blow, 


268 


IDOLS. 


the  poor  wretch  felt  that  death  was  inevitable.  Nor  did 
he  dread  it,  for  he  knew  that  life  could  give  him 
nothing  more,  and  abhorrence  of  the  past  arose  now  pre- 
dominant over  every  othe  sentiment.  To  his  enfeebled 
mind  came  the  recollections  of  his  past  life  like  visions. 
He  would  fain  have  shut  them  out  from  his  sight  and 
closed  his  ears  against  them.  But  no,  he  was  doomed  to 
hear  and  see,  and  this  illusion  of  the  senses,  arising  from 
the  fever  of  his  wounds,  occasioned  him  mental  suffer- 
ing much  more  terrible  than  all  his  physical  pain. 

He  was  a  child  again,  sporting  in  a  great  mossy  wood 
thickly  peopled  with  birds,  which  his  mother  tamed. 
His  mother !  he  saw  her,  too,  a  pretty  peasant  woman, 
active  and  industrious,  who,  in  the  midst  of  her  own  pov- 
erty, had  always  a  kind  word  for  the  afflicted  and  a  crust 
of  bread  for  beggars.  His  father  was  a  wood-cutter  of 
the  forest,  a  rude  trade,  but  one  which  had  many  com- 
pensations. It  was  good  to  see  how  Michel  Machfl  threw 
by  his  axe  at  noonday,  when  his  young  wife  brought 
him  his  meal,  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and  opening 
her  basket,  wherein  were  hot  soup,  tempting  meat,  ripe 
fruits  and  wine.  Together  they  took  their  repast,  while 
the  child  sported  under  the  trees  and  sang  with  the 
oriole.  The  father,  seizing  the  child,  tossed  him  in  the 
air,  or  sought  birds*  nests  for  him,  or  caught  him  a  live 
squirrel.  When  the  mother  was  not  too  busy  in  the 
house  she  brought  her  sewing  out  of  doors,  while  the 
husband  worked  and  the  child  laughed  for  glee.  At 
nightfall  they  all  went  home  under  the  waving  branches; 
the  bell  on  the  village  church  rang  out  the  Angelus,  the 
father  raised  his  hat,  the  mother  blessed  herself,  and  the 
child  grew  grave  seeing  the  gravity  of  his  elders.  Yes, 
those  were  halcyon  days  in  the  shadow  of  the  woods, 
When  the  wood-cutter  earned  their  bread  with  his  axe. 
Suddenly  the  scene  changed.    One  day  the  mother  and 


.'W^ 


was  inevitable.  Nor  did 
lat  life  could  give  him 
f  the  past  arose  now  pre- 
ment.  To  his  enfeebled 
his  past  life  like  visions. 
1  out  from  his  sight  and 
ut  no,  he  was  doomed  to 

the  senses,  arising  from 
loned  him  mental  suffer- 
bis  physical  pain, 
g  in  a  great  mossy  wood 
iich  his  mother  tamed. 
.  pretty  peasant  woman, 
he  midst  of  her  own  pov- 
•  the  afflicted  and  a  crust 
ler  was  a  wood-cutter  of 
e  which  had  many  com- 
low  Michel  Machfl  threw 
lis  young  wife  brought 
ik  of  a  tree  and  opening 
up,  tempting  meat,  ripe 

took  their  repast,  while 
ees  and  sang  with  the 
child,  tossed  him  in  the 
m,  or  caught  him  a  live 
as  not  too  busy  in  the 
out  of  doors,  while  the 
I  laughed  for  glee.  At 
ler  the  waving  branches; 
ng  out  the  Angelus,  the 

blessed  herself,  and  the 
nty  of  his  elders.  Yes, 
;  shadow  of  the  woods, 
heir  bread  with  his  axe. 
►ne  day  the  mother  and 


THE   BARRICADES  OF  DEATH. 


269 


child  were  in  their  little  house,  the  former  singing  one  of 
the  ballads  of  the  country  over  her  washtub.     All  at 
once  two  neighbors  came  rushing  in,  with  pale  faces  and 
eyes  red  with  tears.     They  took  the  woman's  hand,  say- 
ing, 
"  Poor  Mathurine  !    Poor  Mathurine  !" 
"Something  has  happened  to  Michel,"  she  said,  in- 
stinctively, 
"  Yes,  something  terrible,"  they  answered. 
One  of  the  women  then  took  Jean  in  her  arms,  mur- 
muring, "  Poor  orphan." 

"  My  man  is  dead  ?"   cried    Mathurine,   dazed    and 
bewildered. 

"Almost.  You  will  scarcely  have  time  for  a  last 
word,"  said  the  neighbors. 
"  Where  is  he  ?"  cried  Mathurine,  "  where  is  he  ?" 
"They  are  bringing  him  home,"  said  one  of  the 
women,  throwing  the  door  open  as  she  spoke.  Four 
men  entered;  they  carried  a  stretcher;  upon  it  was  a 
motionless  figure  covered  with  a  blood-stained  cloth.  A 
tree  rhich  he  had  been  felling  killed  him  in  its  fall. 

Mathurine  threw  herself  upon  her  husband,  strained 
him  to  her  heart,  and  vainly  sought  one  word,  one  look, 
one  sigh.  He  seemed  already  dead.  They  laid  him  on 
the  bed  and  presently  he  opened  his  eyes.  Seeing  the 
terrible  woe  on  Mathurine's  face,  and  the  tears  in  her 
eyes,  he  closed  his  own  again,  as  if  too  weak  to  bear  the 
sight  of  her  sorrow.  At  length  he  made  an  effort  to 
speak  some  parting  words  to  those  dear  ones  whom  he 
was  about  to  leave.  He  beckoned  his  wife  to  draw  nearer 
to  him,  saying, 

"  Do  not  weep.  I  am  dying.  You  have  been  a  faithful, 
kind  and  gentle  ^ife.  You  made  my  life  easy  and  helped 
me  to  bear  its  troubles.  I  was  too  happy,  Mathurine;  I 
must  leave  it  and  you."    He  kissed  his  wife,  drew  her  to 


;-^','l^^ 


270 


IDOLS. 


his  breast  for  an  instant,  then  took  Jean,  whom  his  wife 
held  up  to  him.  He  pressed  him  close  to  his  heart, 
saying, 

"You  will  never  see  me  again,  little  Jean.  Would 
that  I  might  have  lived  to  see  you  grow  up,  to  teach  you 
to  be  honest  and  industrious,  as  your  mother  will  teach 
you  to  be  pious.  God  does  not  will  it,  and  I  must  be  re- 
signed. Remember  my  last  words,  Jean.  Be  a  good 
son  and  an  honest  man." 

Just  then  the  cur^  of  the  neighboring  village  came  in. 
Michel's  face  brightened.  He  was  a  simple  and  devout 
Christian,  who  had  led  a  life  as  pure  as  the  dawn  which 
he  saw  every  morning  rising  above  his  head.  His  con- 
fession was  not  long,  and  he  died  in  peace  and  hope. 

Here  there  was  a  gap  in  Machu's  memories.  He  re- 
membered his  mother  in  a  black  dress  crying  over  him; 
crying  for  her  good  husband,  and  for  the  future  of  her 
child.  Jean  still  loved  the  woods;  but  he  did  not  work 
in  open  day  like  his  father.  He  haunted  them  at  night 
like  the  wolves.  He  had  forgotten  his  father's  dying 
exhortation,  and  was  deaf  to  the  advice  of  his  mother, 
who  was  almost  heartbroken.  A  hard,  fierce,  rebellious 
nature  was  his;  he  laughed  alike  at  the  dying  words  of 
the  one  and  the  tears  of  the  other.  In  vain  did  Mathu- 
rine,  when  all  else  failed,  strive  to  terrify  him  by  threats 
and  predictions  of  evil.  He  laughed  at  gendarmes,  as 
he  did  at  saints  and  angels,  and  continued  his  evil  way 
of  life.  Indden  in  the  bru.ih.'  )od,  he  wailed  for  the 
game,  laii  nares,  spread  nets,  and  even  if  occasion 
denanded  "hot  "roats.  The  gamekeeper,  a  worthy 
man,  vrar- -id  Mathurine  repeatedly  that  he  Vv'ould  liave 
to  bnnj,  action  against  Jean  for  trespass,  poaching  and 
disb'">nesty.  The  •  lother  could  do  nothing  with  her  son. 
Sliv.  .0  lid  only  weep  anl  pray.  One  night  she  heard 
the  sound  of  footsteps  and  the  clanking  of  sabres  in  the 


THE  BARRICADES  OF  DEATJl. 


271 


)ok  Jean,  whom  his  wife 
him  close  to  his  heart, 

ain,  little  Jean.     Would 
3U  grow  up,  to  teach  yem 
your  mother  will  teach 
will  it,  and  I  must  be  re 
ords,  Jean.     Be  a  good 

hboring  village  came  in. 
fas  a  simple  and  devout 
pure  as  the  dawn  which 
eve  his  head.  His  con- 
id  in  peace  and  hope, 
chu's  memories.  He  re- 
k  dress  crying  over  him; 
id  for  the  future  of  her 
is;  but  he  did  not  work 
e  haunted  them  at  night 
3tten  his  father's  dying 
le  advice  of  his  mother, 
A  hard,  fierce,  rebellious 
;e  at  the  dying  words  of 
ler.  In  vain  did  Mathu- 
fo  terrify  him  by  threats 
aughed  at  gendarmes,  as 
1  continued  his  evil  way 
'  )od,  he  wailed  for  the 
s,  and  even  if  occasion 
gamekeeper,  a  worthy 
edly  that  he  would  have 
r  trespass,  poaching  and 
do  nothing  with  her  son. 
One  night  she  heard 
clanking  of  sabres  in  the 


I 


wood  without.  A  loud  knock  came  to  the  door  of  the 
hut,  and  the  poor  widow  saw  Jean,  her  idolized  Jean, 
with  handcuffs  on  his  wrists  and  a  scowl  of  defiance  on 
his  face.  Caught  in  the  act  of  poaching,  lie  had  resisted 
the  gendarmes,  and  wounded  one  of  them  in  the  hand 
with  his  knife. 

"  Mercy,  mercy,  good  gentlemen!"  cried  the  mother, 
falling  on  her  knees. 

"  Mathiyine,"  said  the  wounded  gendarme,  "  if  I  were 
alone  concerned  I  would  release  this  vagabond,  but  I 
have  my  duty  to  do,  and  he  must  come  with  us.  I  1  ave 
brought  him  to  say  good  by  to  you,  because  you  ;  -e  an 
honest  woman,  and  Michel  Machd  left  a  good  n.  ine  in 
the  neighborhood." 

"Oh,  where  are  you  taking  him?"  asked  Mathurine. 

"  To  prison,"  answered  he.  ^ 

"My  child  in  prison!"  she  wailed  out. 

"You  must  own  he  deserves  it,"  said  the  man,  "spite 
of  all  your  goodness  to  him." 

"  How  long  will  they  keep  him?"  she  asked. 

"That,"  said  the  officer,  "is  the  judge's  affair,  not 
mine,  but  I  think  they  will  put  him  in  the  House  of 
Correction." 

"Jean,"  said  the  hapless  mother,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
"you  have  killed  me." 

When  Mathurine  recovered  consciousness  the  whole 
terrible  vision  had  passed  away,  but  in  her  ears  still 
sounded  the  clanking  of  sabres  and  of  the  handcuffs 
upon  Jean's  hands. 

How  well  Jean  remembered  that  night,  the  first  step 
in  the  path  of  crime,  sentence,  punishment  which  he  had 
ever  since  pursued.  Precocious  criminal  of  fifteen  as 
he  was,  he  did  not  reflect  that  the  law  gave  him  every 
chance  of  becoming  ati  honest  man.  He  never  dreamed 
of  rep4iriqg  the  faults  of  his  youth  ^  y  sincere  repent- 


272 


IDOLS. 


ance.  On  the  contrary,  he  vowed  vengeance  against 
society,  which  he  had  so  early  outraged,  and  began  a 
deadly  struggle  against  its  laws.  Time  passed  slowly  in 
the  House  of  Correction.  One  day  some  one  came  and 
told  him  his  mother  was  dead.  Bad  as  he  was  the 
blow  was  a  heavy  one.  He  felt  it  to  the  core  of  his 
heart.  But  his  companions  soon  dispelled  whatever 
salutary  impression  it  might  have  made  on  him.  They 
stirred  him  up  by  so  many  anecdotes  of  tricks  played 
upon  the  authorities,  and  plans  for  the  future,  that  he 
began  to  long  for  the  hour  of  his  liberation.  It  came, 
and  he  was  free.  He  had  a  little  money  in  his  pocket. 
He  knew  a  trade,  and  might  have  earned  an  honest 
living;  but  he  preferred  idleness  to  work,  and  at  any 
rate  resolved  to  spend  his  money  first.  He  met  some 
companions.  They  brought  him  to  wretched  lodgings, 
and  introduced  him  to  some  of  the  lowest  dens  in  Paris. 
In  a  week's  time  his  vague  idea  of  going  to  work  had 
vanished.  He  resolved  to  live  without  employment  and 
exercise  vagrancy  as  his  only  trade.  He  did  not  dis- 
dain to  open  carriages,  pick  up  the  butt  ends  of  cigars, 
sell  letter  paper,  or  tapers  for  smokers,  but  whoever 
penetrated  the  garret  where  he  lived  would  have  been 
amazed  at  the  curious  collection  of  articles  it  contained 
— hams,  new  pairs  of  shoes,  pieces  of  stuffs,  balls  of 
wool,  ready-made  garments,  boxes  of  blacking,  all  ly- 
ing in  the  most  picturesque  disorder,  till  Methusalem, 
the  broker  of  the  Rue  Git-le-Coeur,  came  to  bring 
order  out  of  chaos,  and  to  carry  the  whole  lot  off  in  ex- 
change for  some  pieces  of  money. 

One  night  Machft  and  a  companion  had  been  on  a 
drinking  bout.  When  they  were  about  returning  home, 
the  weather  being  rainy,  and  their  strength  unequal 
to  crawling  along  by  the  wall,  they  hailed  a  coachman, 
and  gave  him  an  address  which  made  him  toss  his  head. 


THE  BARRICADES  OF  DEATH. 


273 


;d   vengeance  against 
mtraged,  and  began  a 

Time  passed  slowly  in 

ly  some  one  came  and 

Bad  as   he  was  the 

it  to  the  core  of  his 
)n  dispelled  whatever 
i  made  on  him.  They 
dotes  of  tricks  played 
or  the  future,  that  he 
is  liberation.  It  came, 
;  money  in  his  pocket, 
ave  earned  an   honest 

to  work,  and  at  any 
y  first.     He  met  some 

to  wretched  lodgings, 
e  lowest  dens  in  Paris. 

of  going  to  work  had 
thout  employment  and 
ade.  He  did  not  dis- 
:he  butt  ends  of  cigars, 
smokers,  but  whoever 
lived  would  have  been 
of  articles  it  contained 
:ces  of  stuffs,  balls  of 
:es  of  blacking,  all  ly- 
3rder,  till  Methusalem, 
i^oeur,  came  to  bring 
the  whole  lot  off  in  ex- 

3anion  had  been  on  a 
about  returning  home, 
their  strength  unequal 
ley  hailed  a  coachman, 
lade  him  toss  his  head. 


Coming  to  a  suspicious-looking  house,  they  called  out 
to  him  to  stop,  and  alighting,  began  as  it  were  to  fum- 
ble in  their  pockets  for  his  fare.  Of  course  they  had 
nothing.  Jean  Machfl  jogged  his  companion's  elbow, 
and  the  driver  having  got  down  to  open  the  door  and 
receive  the  money,  Machil  by  a  rapid  movement  gagged 
him,  while  his  comrade  stunned  him  with  a  blow  upon 
the  chest,  took  his  purse  from  his  pocket,  pushed  Machfl 
into  the  carriage,  got  upon  the  box  and  whipped  up  the 
horses.  Next  day  the  confederates  made  good  cheer 
with  the  horses  and  the  money.  But  shortly  after  the 
police,  making  a  descent  upon  a  notorious  haunt, 
V  ook  Jean  Machii.  It  was  a  more  serious  matter  this 
tiiie.  A  trial  in  a  criminal  court,  the  chain  and  ball, 
the  departure  with  the  chain-gang,  and  the  galleys. 
Thenceforth  Machfl  had  only  one  thbught,  that  of 
escape.  And  he  accomplished  his  design  by  a  series  of 
adventures  more  extraordinary  than  half  the  wondrous 
tales  that  beguile  the  tediousness  of  the  mess  or  guard- 
room. Having  climbed  a  wall  by  means  of  his  knife, 
he  hung  suspended  over  an  abyss  by  a  frail  cord.  Pur- 
sued by  the  keepers,  and  driven  ashore  by  a  furious 
storm,  he  rushed  panting  and  exhausted  into  a  hut,  to 
which  he  was  admitted  by  a  young  man  of  angelic 
countenance. 

"  The  Abb6  Sulpice,  the  Abb6  Sulpice,"  muttered  the 
• .  ounded  wretch. 

Oh,  how  the  circumstances  of  that  night  forced  them- 
selves upon  his  memory.  How  carefully  the  prie£.i  had 
warmed  his  stiffened  limbs;  with  what  more  than 
brotherly  love  he  had  ,>lied  him  with  all  things 
necessary  for  his  escape.  More  than  this,  ivi  that  little 
hut,  at  the  door  of  which  the  gendarmes  might  any 
moment  1  lock  demanding  the  convict,  the  priest  had 
spoken  of  hope,  repentance,  an  honorable  life  to  the  felon, 


274 


IDOLS. 


the  outlaw  of  society.  Nor  had  he  stopped  there.  A 
letter  of  recommendation  gave  Jean  MachA  a  chance  to 
lead  an  honest  life.  His  future  might  yet  have  been 
happy.  A  new  name,  an  honest  trade,  would  forever 
have  disguised  the  escaped  galley-slave  of  Brest,  so  that 
henceforth  he  would  be  unrecognizable.  Touched  and 
subdued  by  the  priest's  words  and  manner,  Jean  Machii 
had  promised,  and  even  made  an  effort  to  keep  his  word. 
He  had  gone  to  the  manufactory,  the  proprietor  of 
which  had  received  him  on  the  recommendation  of  the 
priest.  But  a  robber  whom  he  met,  and  whom  he  had 
knov  n  in  other  times,  recognized  him,  deprived  him  of 
his  savings,  and  threatened  to  denounce  him,  if  he  did 
not  supply  all  his  wants.  In  despair  Jean  Machd  fled 
from  thv  place,  lest  his  real  name  might  become  known. 
Still  weak  *rom  his  wounds  he  remained  irresolute,  and 
at  the  close  of  day  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  ditch  by  the 
roadside,  asking  himself  what  he  was  to  do.  Better 
throw  himself  at  once  into  the  furnace,  and  go  to  Paris. 
Once  there  his  first  visit  was  to  Methusalem. 

The  latter  received  him  with  the  honor  due  to  a  man 
who  had  escaped  the  galleys,  and  brought  him  into  con- 
tact with  some  of  the  most  rioted  thieves.  Thenceforth 
his  crimes  changed,  not  in  their  nature,  but  in  the  man- 
ner of  perpetration.  Mere  murders  seemed  very  paltry 
enterprises,  and  the  stage-coach  having  been  rendered  ob- 
solete by  the  railroad,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
in  that  line,  and  so  they  sought  some  new  path  to  re- 
nown. Theft  arose  to  the  dignity  of  a  profession,  a 
society  regularly  commanded.  Its  members  were  care- 
fully organized,  recrujted  from  every  portion  of  the  city; 
they  despised  no  auxiliary,  and  sometimes  burst  in  with 
the  news  that  they  had  just  gained  at  one  haul  a  band, 
lieutenants  and  captain,  all  ready  to  obey  that  scrupu- 
lously respected  hierarchy. 


THE   BAkKICADES  OF  DEATH. 


m 


,d  he  stopped  there.    A 
fean  Machd  a  chance  to 
e  might  yet  have  been 
St  trade,  would  forever 
;y-slave  of  Brest,  so  that 
jnizable.     Touched  and 
.nd  manner,  Jean  Machfl 
I  effort  to  keep  his  word. 
:tory,  the   proprietor  of 
recommendation  of  the 
met,  and  whom  he  had 
id  him,  deprived  him  of 
denounce  him,  if  he  did 
despair  Jean  MachQ  fled 
ne  might  become  known, 
remained  irresolute,  and 
edge  of  a  ditch  by  the 
he  was  to  do.      Better 
furnace,  and  go  to  Paris. 
Methusalem. 
the  honor  due  to  a  man 
id  brought  him  into  con- 
id  thieves.     Thenceforth 
r  nature,  but  in  the  man- 
rders  seemed  very  paltry 
having  been  rendered  ob- 
«ras  nothing  to  be  done 
It  some  new  path  to  r«- 
gnity  of  a  profession,  a 
Its  members  were  care- 
every  portion  of  the  city; 
sometimes  burst  in  with 
ined  at  one  haul  a  band, 
ady  to  obey  that  scrupu- 


Jean  Machil  was  enrolled  in  a  company  composed  of  the 
most  heterogeneous  elements.  He  had  under  his  orders 
classical  scholars,  clerks  of  government  ministers,  who, 
beginning  by  stealing  paper  and  pens  from  the  desk,  had 
reached  to  this  refinement  of  villainy.  Machfl  had  first 
met  Fleur  d'Echafaud  at  Methusalem's  table,  for  the 
Fension  Bourgeoise  was  the  resort  of  all  who  were  in- 
volved in  dangerous  enterprises.  It  was  Marc  Mauduit 
who  had  planned  the  Pomereul  robbery,  on  account  of 
the  perfect  facilities  afforded  him  for  knowing  the  house 
by  his  office  of  secretary. 

Ah,  what  a  night  that  was  !  The  scenes  of  his  double 
crime  came  before  his  wandering  mind  like  the  various 
acts  of  a  drama.  They  go  in,  Fleur  d'Echafaud  and 
himself.  The  door  of  the  safe  is  open,  displaying  piles 
of  banknotes.  While  they  are  busy  ertiptying  it  a  man 
comes  in.  He  must  be  killed.  In  a  moment  Jean  Machfl's 
fingers  are  on  the  old  man's  throat,  a  brute,  a  senseless 
being,  interferes;  he  falls,  stricken  by  Fleur  d'Echa- 
faud's  dagger.  The  murderers  fly  in  haste,  leaving  the 
murdered  man,  already  rigid  in  death,  and  the  chim- 
panzee writhing  in  agony.  As  they  go  down  the  stairs 
a  noise  is  heard,  some  one  enters  and  comes  up  towards 
them.    'Tis  the  Abb^  Sulpice. 

The  name  seemed  to  bring  back  consciousneu.  He 
found  himself  alone  in  that  vast  cemetery,  transformed 
intt*  a  general  grave,  and  the  paths  of  which  were  strewn 
with  ApaA.  He  bad  just  passed  in  review  his  whole  life, 
a  life  of  shame,  of  crime,  of  utter  depravity  and  wicked- 
ness. Arvvund  him  was  darkness,  afar  off  through  the 
gloom  the  red  embers  of  the  soldiers'  bivouac.  Jean 
Machfl  recalled  in  one  brief  moment  his  father's  dying 
words,  the  sound  of  the  village  bells,  the  exhortations  of 
the  Abb^  Pomereul  on  that  night  when  the  murderer, 
abusing  the  power  given  to  the  penitent  by  the  religious 


'* 


276 


IDOLS. 


law,  had  sealed  the  lips  of  the  son  upon  the  murder  of 
the  father. 

Did  Jean  Machd  really  believe  in  the  depths  of  his 
soul  that  there  was  no  future  life  ?  That  future  life  in 
which  the  Abb6  Sulpice  musi  so  firmly  believe,  or  he 
would  never  have  kept  faithfully  the  secret  of  confession. 

In  the  wretch's  soul  one  good  thought  found  place. 

"  If  I  could  prove  his  brother's  innocence,"  he  thought. 

This  idea  took  such  complete  possession  of  him  that 
he  cast  about  for  any  means  of  putting  it  into  execution. 

But  to  accomplish  this  he  would  have  to  escape  from 
the  cemetery,  and  pass  through  the  detachments  of 
soldiers  stationed  at  all  points. 

"  If  I  could  change  my  clothes,"  thought  Jean  MachA. 
He  slipped  off  his  coat,  bound  his  arm  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  began  to  grope  in  the  darkness.  He  recog- 
nized by  the  touch  the  uniform  of  a  soldier  of  the  line. 
Slowly,  very  slowly,  for  his  wounds  were  painful,  and  he 
was  very  weak,  MachQ  took  the  dead  soldier's  clothes. 
Still  more  slowly  he  hid  his  own;  but  when  he  had  suc- 
ceeded m  putting  on  the  uniform,  which  he  soiled  by  his 
touch,  the  cold  sweat  of  exhaustion  covered  his  brow, 
and  he  fell  back,  muttering, 

"  I  can  never  do  it." 

He  made  another  effort,  however,  and  with  indescriba- 
ble exertion  managed  to  get  upon  his  feet.  By  grasp- 
ing the  marble  railings,  steps,  or  crosses,  and  pausing 
ever  and  anon  to  rest,  he  reached  one  of  the  alleys  of  the 
cemetery.  A  little  farther  on  the  light  of  a  campfire 
guided  him.  His  limbs  failed,  he  sank  down,  but  he 
crept  along  the  ground,  slowly,  slowly,  till  he  was  near 
enough  to  cry  out  in  a  faint  voice.  A  soldier  heard  him, 
hastened  to  his  assistance,  and  brought  him  to  the  fire. 
Some  drops  of  brandy  revived  him,  but,  from  the  pain  of 
his  wounds  and  terror  at  his  situation,  he  fell  into  a  sleep 


THE  BARRICADES  OF  DEATH. 


vrr 


tn  upon  the  murder  of 

s  in  the  depths  of  his 
e?  That  future  life  in 
»o  firmly  believe,  or  he 
the  secret  of  confession, 
thought  found  place, 
innocence,"  he  thought, 
possession  of  him  that 
utting  it  into  execution, 
uld  have  to  escape  from 
;h   the   detachments   of 

,"  thought  Jean  MachA. 
s  arm  with  his  handker- 
e  darkness.  He  recog- 
)f  a  soldier  of  the  line, 
ids  were  painful,  and  he 
dead  soldier's  clothes, 
i;  but  when  he  had  sue- 
1,  which  he  soiled  by  his 
stion  covered  his  brow, 


;er,  and  with  indescriba- 
)on  his  feet.  By  grasp- 
er crosses,  and  pausing 
1  one  of  the  alleys  of  the 
the  light  of  a  campfire 
he  sank  down,  but  he 
slowly,  till  he  was  near 
e.  A  soldier  heard  him, 
irought  him  to  the  fire, 
im,  but,  from  the  pain  of 
ition,  he  fell  into  a  sleep 


so  profound  that  it  was  almost  like  a  trance.  When  he 
opened  his  eyes  the  friendly  voices  encouraged  him. 
He  turned  away  his  face  from  those  honest  ones  which 
were  bending  over  him,  and  feebly  articulated, 

"Comrades!  Chauss6e  d'Antin.'  The  Abb6  Pome- 
reul !" 

"I  see,"  said  one  of  the  soldiers,  "you  want  to  be 
brought  there  ?" 

Mach0  made  an  affirmative  sign. 

"  Well,  as  the  hospitals  are  all  full,  it  is  the  best  place 
j'.i  you.     The  first  litter  will  take  you  there." 

i;:  a  few  mitiUiirt,  jean  Machu,  laid  upon  a  stretcher, 
and  ^i)  v^ieak  that  he  wondered  whether  he  should  be 
able  to  carry  out  his  plan,  was  being  carried  by  two  men 
to  the  Rue  de  la  Chauss6e  d'Antin. 

With  a  new  feeling  of  shame  he  had' put  his  arm  over 
his  face,  and  as  he  passed  many  an  honest  citizen,  be- 
lieving him  to  be  a  soldier  of  that  heroic  army,  uncovered 
with  respect. 

Sulpice,  Xavier  and  Sabine  were  together  in  a  room 
on  the  first  floor  of  the  house  when  the  concierge  ran 
up  stairs  qiitt^^  breathless  to  Baptiste,  who  brought  the 
message  to  hiH  master. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  said  the  Abb6  Pornereul. 

"They  have  brought  a  wounded  man  here,"  said  he. 

"  A  wounded  man  ?"  repeated  the  priest. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  soldier !"  said  Baptiste. 

"  So,  Sabine,  your  work  is  not  done,"  said  he  to  his 
sister,  adding  to  Baptir^te  "  Bring  him  here,  till  a  bed 
can  be  got  ready." 

Presently  the  litter-bearers  carried  their  burden  into 
what  had  been  M.  Pomereul's  study.  They  withdrew 
at  once,  fully  repaid  for  their  pains  by  Sulpice,  and  the 
wounded  man  immediately  raised  himself  to  a  sitting 
posture.     Sabine  and  her  two  brothers  were  at  his  side; 


K«;9 


PtW^MIMMv. 


278  IDOLS. 

but  all  at  once  Sulpice   turned   deadly  pale,  while  a 
strange  fire  came  into  tiie  convict's  eyes. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  they  have  brought  me  here.  I  re- 
member'the  place  well.  The  open  safe,  the  door  by 
which  he  came  in.     And  there,  there,  the  spot  where  I 

killed  him." 

"What  is  he  saying ?"  asked  Xavier. 

"  His  mind  is  wandering,"  said  the  priest.  "  Leav^;  ru- 
alou    with  him.     I  must  save  this  soul.    God  owes  u  to 

me.' 

S  said  these  words  with  such  fervor  that  various 

explosions  chased  each  other  over  the  convict's  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  he;  "  I  came  to  bring  it  to  you.  I  am  con- 
quered.' Mademoiselle,  give  me  writing  materials,  I  beg 
of  you.  And  you,  sir,"  to  Xavier,  "  stay.  I  want  your 
pardon,  too." 

Without  knowing  what  it  all  meant,  Sabme  brought 
what  he  had  asked,  and  knelt  with  them  beside  the  dymg 

man.  •»«    ua 

The  Abb6  Sulpice  held  him  in  his  arms.  Jean  MachO 
wrote  four  lines  in  a  scrawling  hand,  rendered  |lmost 
illegible  by  weakness,  and  fell  back  exhausted.  Sabine 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  raise  him,  and  he  gave  her 
such  a  look  of  mingled  shame,  terror  and  gratitude  that 
it  went  to  her  heart. 

"  I  have  not  signed  it  yet,"  he  gasped. 

His  fingers  still  held  the  pen.  He  traced  some  letters 
which  were  barely  recognizable  as  the  signature  of  Jean 
MachA.  He  motioned  to  Xavier  to  take  the  paper.  The 
latter  took  it  mechanically,  but  at  one  glance  his  face  lit 
up  with  joy,  and  he  fell  at  his  brother's  feet,  saying, 

"  Pardon  me,  that  I  could  not  rise  to  your  heights." 

Sulpice  hastily  pressed  his  brother's  hand,  and  turned 
to  devote  his  whole  attention  to  the  dying  convict  He 
held  the  crucifix  to  the  cold  lips,  saying, 


THE  BARRICADES  OF  DEATH. 


•79 


deadly  pale,  while  a 
:'s  eyes. 

irought  me  here.  I  re- 
pen  safe,  the  door  by 
there,  the  spot  where  I 

avier. 

the  priest.     "  Leav;  r  jt- 

s  soul.    God  owes  u  to 

juch  fervor  that  various 
er  the  convict's  face. 
ig  it  to  you.     I  am  con- 
writing  materials,  I  beg 
jr,  "  stay.     I  want  your 

meant,  Sabine  brought 
h  them  beside  the  dying 

his  arms.  Jean  Machil 
hand,  rendered  almost 
ack  exhausted.  Sabine 
;e  him,  and  he  gave  her 
srror  and  gratitude  that 

gasped. 

He  traced  some  letters 
as  the  signature  of  Jean 
■  to  take  the  paper.  The 
It  one  glance  his  face  lit 
•other's  feet,  saying, 
rise  to  your  heights." 
other's  hand,  and  turned 

the  dying  convict    He 
,  saying, 


"  Die  in  peace,  in  the  name  of  the  God  who  died  to 
save  the  world.  Die  in  peace,  and  may  the  shedding  of 
your  blood  suffice  to  wash  away  your  sins." 

"  No,  not  mine,"  cried  Jean  MachA,  with  sudden  energy. 
"  My  whole  life  has  been  a  long  course  of  wickedness. 
My  death  cannot  expiate  such  a  life.  Even  you  bear  on 
your  forehead  a  scar  caused  by  me.  Oh,  why  do  you 
not  curse  me  ?" 

" But  remember  the  heroic  actions  of  this  day,"  said 
Sulpice.  "Oh,  I  pardon  you  what  is  past  from  my 
heart." 

"  But  your  father,  your  father  ?"  gasped  the  felon. 

"  The  elect  of  God  are  merciful,"  said  Sulpice. 

"  Your  brother  and  sister  ?" 

"We  are  Christians,"  said  Sulpice. 

With  admirable  patience,  sublime  cHarity  and  fervor, 
the  abb6  gradually  calmed  the  convict's  terrors.  He 
took  in  his  priestly  hands  that  soul  covered  with  so  many 
sins  and  washed  it  in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb.  By  that 
miracle  of  inestimable  power  which  is  operated  in  con- 
fession the  sins  of  Jean  Machd,  scarlet  though  they  were, 
were  washed  iway.  His  soul  was  filled  with  the  pleni- 
tude of  grace,  conveyed  by  those  solemn  words  falling 
from  an  apostle's  lips. 

Surely  the  Lord  had  awaited  that  supreme  moment  to 
reward  the  sublime  faith  of  Sulpice,  for  scarcely  had  the 
words  of  absolution  fallen  upon  that  sinful  soul  when 
Jean  Machfl  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  with  that  sigh 
passed  away. 


38o 


LIPP-LAPP, 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


m 


Lipp-Lapp. 

Many  guests  still  came  to  Methusalem's  tad/e  d'hote 
in  the  Rue  Git-le-Coeur,  but  these  assemblies  were 
quieter  than  of  yore,  the  mirth  was  not  so  boisterous, 
and  even  the  second-hand  dealer  himself  had  a  shade  of 
anxiety  on  his  face.  He  got  rid  as  quickly  as  possible 
of  his  merchandise,  and  the  Naine  often  passed  whole 
nights  in  removing  the  markings  from  line  linen,  upon 
which  the  embroidered  coronet  betrayed  the  source 
whence  it  had  come.  Moreover,  a  stove  was  placed  in 
the  Naine's  kitchen,  where  Methusalem  melted  up  silver, 
making  ingots,  of  which  he  hastily  disposed.  Yet,  far 
from  diminishing,  the  number  of  his  customers  was  con-  ■ 
stantly  on  the  increase.  Methusalem  was  obliged  to 
establish  for  their  accommodation  a  dormitory  or  lodg- 
ing-room, as  he  had  before  established  a  table  d'hote. 
Most  of  his  customers  preferred  remaining  in  this  wretched 
hole  to  taking  furnished  lodging^  which  might  compro- 
mise them.  New  arrests  were  being  made  every  day. 
Methusalem's  boarders  were  already  well  represented  in 
the  prisons  of  the  Versaillists,  and  those  who  were  still 
at  large  were  by  no  means  reassured  as  to  their  future. 
The  most  anxious  of  all  was  Fleur  d'Echafaud.  The 
rank  he  had  held  in  the  army  of  the  Commune,  his 
undeniable  share  in  the  murder  of  the  hostages,  in 
the  sacking  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  and  the  Tuileries, 
in  the  burning  of  the  Department  of  Finance  and 
the  houses  of  the  Rue  de  Lille,  made  him  prefer  the 
tedious  and  obscure  life  of  the  Rue  Git-le-Cceur  to 
the  more  brilliant  and  noisy  one  he  was  wont  to  lead 


?. 


[VIII. 

p. 

iethusalem's  taMe  ^hote 
these    assemblies   were 
1  was  not  so  boisterous, 
r  himself  had  a  shade  of 
d  as  quickly  as  possible 
line  often  passed  wholt 
gs  from  fine  linen,  upon 
et  betrayed   the  source 
!r,  a  stove  w;as  placed  in 
lusalem  melted  up  silver, 
stily  disposed.     Yet,  far 
>f  his  customers  was  con- 
lusalem  was  obliged  to 
ion  a  dormitory  or  lodg- 
stablished  a  table  d'hote. 
emaining  in  this  wretched 
gs  which  might  com  pro- 
being  made  every  day. 
ready  well  represented  in 
and  those  who  were  still 
ssured  as  to  their  future. 
Fleur  d'Echafaud.     The 
y  of  the  Commune,  his 
rder  of  the  hostages,  in 
Honor  and  the  Tuileries, 
irtment  of   Finance    and 
lie,  made  him  prefer  the 
the   Rue  Git-le-Coeur  to 
one  he  was  wort  to  lead 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

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Collection  de 
microfiches. 


LIPP-LAPP. 


281 


among  a  circle  of  which  he  was  the  oracle.  His  dress 
had  undergone  much  the  same  transformation  as  his 
habits.  Instead  of  the  fashionable  overcoat  and 
cravat,  he  wore  a  blue  blouse,  open  at  the  neck,  show- 
ing the  collar  of  the  shirt  and  a  bright-colored  foulard 
loosely  knotted.  A  black  wig  concealed  his  own  pecu- 
liar shade  of  hair.  With  his  cap  jauntily  set  on  one  side, 
a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
he  looked  like  a  young  tradesman  taking  a  holiday. 
Though  it  is  true  that  every  day  was  a  holiday  for  him. 
Fleur  d'Echafaud  had  also  taken  care  to  change  his 
quarters.  Methusalem's  neighborhood  seemed  more  de- 
sirable just  then  than  the  great  thoroughfares.  Before 
recommencing  operations,  he  was  waiting  till  the  politi- 
cal situation  should  be  once  more  clearly  defined,  till  the 
law  had  done  with  the  members  of  the  Commune,  and 
the  crowd  of  hapless  wretches  who  had  followed  in  its 
bloody  track.  Moreover,  be  had  never  been  so  carefully 
watched  and  guarded  by  the  Naine  as  since  the  moment 
when  he  had  placed  himself,  so  to  say,  at  her  discretion. 
Seeing  her  eager  gaze  so  constantly  fixed  upon  him,  and 
she  herself  so  solicitous  for  his  comfort  and  welfare, 
Methusalem's  guests  were  wont  to  indulge  in  many  a 
rude  jest,  in  which  Fleur  d'Echafaud  himself  took  part. 

"  Naine,"  said  they,  "  you  must  marry  the  handsome 
Marc." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Naine  one  day,  in  a  gloomy  voice,  "I 
will  marry  him,  and  in  the  church,  too." 

"  Then  you  believe  in  God  ?" 

A  hideous  laugh  distorted  her  face. 

"At  the  Abbey  of  Monte-a- Regret,"  she  am tvered. 

But  this  time  Fleur  d'Echafaud  did  not  laugh.  A  cold 
shudder  passed  t^irough  him.  What  link  bound  him 
to  the  Naine?  As  far  as  his  memory  could  reach, 
he  remembered  this  deformed  being  seizing  him  in  her 


I    . 


a82 


IDOLS. 


disproportioned  arms  and  carrying  him  hither  and  thither 
with  inconceivable  rapidity.  He  could  recall  the  booth 
of  the  mountebank  who  had  trained  him,  so  that  he  was 
qualified  to  gain  a  livelihood  on  the  rope  or  the  trapeze, 
with  the  permission  of  the  Mayor.  The  Naine,  how- 
ever, took  him  away  and  put  him  at  a  boarding-school, 
where  she  forbade  him,  under  the  most  terrible  penalties, 
to  mention  the  profession  he  had  followed  for  five  years. 
Pride,  however,  would  have  suggested  this  precaution  to 
Marc,  even  had  the  Naine  never  insisted  upon  it.  When 
he  finished  school  she  seemed  to  abandon  him,  and  he 
supposed  she  had  left  Paris.  He  found  her  again  as  ser- 
vant to  Methusalem,  but  he  was  by  that  time  in  Methu- 
salem's  gang,  and  an  intimate  associate  of  Jean  Machii. 

"  Can  this  wretch  have  some  secret  design  ?"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  and  is  she  true  ?" 

He  could  not  answer,  but  a  vague  fear  thenceforth 
took  possession  of  him,  and  he  resolved  to  quit.Methusa- 
lem's  hospitable  roof  as  soon  as  he  could  create  a  new 
identity  for  himself,  and  pass  into  a  new  state  of  being. 
The  burning  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  by  destroying  all 
registers  of  birth,  facilitated  such  a  plan,  and  the  day 
would  come  when  Fleur  d'Echafaud  would  go  on  this 
errand  to  the  Abb6  Sulpice.     His  share  of  the  hundred 
thousand  francs,  as  well  as  the  proceeds  of  the  late 
pillage,  had  given  Fleur  d'Echafaud  an  income  of  six 
thousand  francs.     He  could,  therefore,  choose  between 
the  peaceful  life  of  a  citizen,  or  the  fluctuating  career  of 
an  adventurer.    It  seemed  to  him  safer  to  slip  into  an 
honest  man's  shoes.     If  later  he  chose  to  take  part  in 
such  affairs,  it  would  be  on  a  grand  scale.    He  would 
seek  to  ally  himself  with  some  industrial  society,  under 
the  patronage  of  great  names,  he  would  speculate  at  the 
Bourse,  become  an  unlicensed  broker,  and  succeed  at 
length,  perhaps,  in  acquiring  a  large  fortune. 


ig  him  hither  and  thither 
!  could  recall  the  booth 
ned  him,  so  that  he  was 
the  rope  or  the  trapeze, 
yor.  The  Naine,  how- 
im  at  a  boarding-school, 
5  most  terrible  penalties, 
I  followed  for  five  years. 
rested  this  precaution  to 
insisted  upon  it.  When 
to  abandon  him,  and  he 
;  found  her  again  as  ser- 
i  by  that  time  in  Methu- 
isociate  of  Jean  Machfl. 
secret  design  ?"  he  said 

vague  fear  thenceforth 
esolved  to  quit^ethusa- 
5  he  could  create  a  new 
ito  a  new  state  of  being. 
Ville,  by  destroying  all 
»ch  a  plan,  and  the  day 
lafaud  would  go  on  this 
lis  share  of  the  hundred 
he  proceeds  of  the  late 
lafaud  an  income  of  six 
lerefore,  choose  between 
the  fluctuating  career  of 
him  safer  to  slip  into  an 
he  chose  to  take  part  in 
grand  scale.  He  would 
industrial  society,  under 
le  would  speculate  at  the 

broker,  and  succeed  at 
large  fortune. 


LIPP-LAPP. 


283 


But  this  fair  picture,  which  he  cherished  by  night  and 
by  day,  had  its  dark  and  terrible  reverse  side.  If  there 
is  a  tenacious  friendship  it  is  that  of  the  dishonest. 
They  do  not  attach  themselves  to  any  one,  they  cling. 
They  never  allow  one  of  their  number  to  attain  an  envia- 
ble situation,  except  in  the  hope  of  future  profit,  ^hey 
become  the  leeches  of  those  who,  starting  at  the  lowest 
peg,  finally  reach  the  highest  step  of  the  ladder.  Easier 
is  it  to  escape  the  searching  gaze  of  a  detective  than 
the  affectionate  remembrance  of  a  felon.  The  latter  is 
ever  the  better  physiognomist.  Jean  Machd's  death  had 
been  a  great  relief  to  his  former  comrade.  In  dying, 
the  convict,  overcome  by  the  Abb6  Sulpice's  sublime 
generosity,  had  confessed  his  crime,  and  signed  his  last 
confession  with  expiring  hand. 

Under  those  circumstances  there  had  been  little  diffi- 
culty in  restoring  Xavier  Pomereul's  good  name,  and 
securing  his  liberty.  Fleur  d'Echafaud  was  therefore 
easy  on  that  score.  Jean  Machfl  dead,  the  secret  of  the 
robbery  and  murder  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin  was  safe. 

Some  months  passed.  France  was  once  more  at 
peace,  though  the  turmoil  of  politics  prevented  any  great 
impetus  from  being  given  to  trade.  Every  one  was 
busy  counting  his  losses,  healing  his  wounds,  mourning 
the  departed,  or  calculating  the  decrease  of  his  income 
through  the  rise  of  taxes  or  the  losses  sustained  through 
war,  incendiarism,  and  the  Commune.  The  factory  at 
Charenton  still  went  on.  It  is  true  that  upon  the 
thresholds  of  the  pretty  homesteads  built  for  his  work- 
men by  Antoine  Pomereul  was  to  be  seen  many  a  young 
mother  wearing  mourning,  and  holding  her  orphaned 
child  in  her  arms.  Touching  sight!  where  the  one  had 
forgotten  how  to  smile,  and  the  other  had  not  yet 
learned. 

There  was,  however,  no  want  among  these  working 


ss^Ka^^^^^Ks^^^^s^^ss^^sr 


2H 


IDOLS. 


people  The  widows  received  a  pension,  because  their  hus- 
bands had  fallen  in  defence  of  their  country.  If  France 
forgot  these  improvised  soldiers,  the  Abb6  Sulpice  re- 
membered the  heroes  of  Champigny,  Buzenval  and  Mon- 
tretout,  and  he  paid  their  country's  debt  to  them,  with 
a  generosity  the  more  admirable  that  it  was  promptly 
and  simply  accomplished.  The  school  took  the  children; 
apprentices,  the  labor  of  whom  was  always  suited  to 
their  years,  worked  with  ardor.  Their  main  object  was 
to  please  Sulpice,  and  in  this  they  fully  succeeded. 

Xavier  definitely  left  the  home  in  the  Chauss^e  d'Antin. 
The  day  after  his  sentence  had  been  reversed  and  justice 
done  him,  he  called  his  brother  and  sister. 

"  I  am  saved,"  he  said,  "  but  my  conscience  is  not  so 
easily  rehabilitated.  It  is  proved  that  I  did  not  kill  my 
father,  but  my  life  was  such  as  to  give  rise  to  the  ac- 
cusation. I  am  only  twenty-six,  and  have  yet  time  to 
reform.  It  was  a  terrible  lesson,  but  I  will  profit  by  it. 
My  debts,  which  you  so  generously  paid,  Sulpice,  must 
not  come  out  of  your  inheritance,  nor  that  of  Sabine." 

"Xavier,"  said  Sabine,  reproachfully,  "are  you  too 
proud  to  owe  that  to  us  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  child,"  said  he;  "  but  I  have  some  sense 
of  justice,  and  a  great  deal  of  affection.  Besides,  you 
know  what  use  I  have  hitherto  made  of  money;  it  is 
better  not  to  trust  me  with  any  more.  I  am  only  con- 
valescent as  yet,  and  might  have  a  relapse.  Calculating 
everything— and  you  will  see  that  I  am  a  ready  account- 
ant, Sulpice— I  have  left  myself  a  capital  of  30,000 
francs,  that  is  to  say,  an  income  of  1500.  I  am  going 
to  live  on  that." 

"  You  ?"  cried  Sulpice. 
"  Why,  it  is  impossible  !"  said  Sabine. 
"  But  you  do  not  take  into  account  what  I  can  earn," 
said  Xavier,  and  turning  to  Sulpice  he  asked, 


jnsion,  because  theirhus- 
heir  country.  If  France 
•s,  the  Abb6  Sulpice  re- 
gny,  Buzenval  and  Mon- 
try's  debt  to  them,  with 
le  that  it  was  promptly 
school  took  the  children; 
n  was  always  suited  to 
Their  main  object  was 
ey  fully  succeeded. 
:  in  the  Chauss^e  d'Antin. 
been  reversed  and  justice 

and  sister. 

my  conscience  is  not  so 
ed  that  I  did  not  kill  my 
s  to  give  rise  to  the  ac- 
ix,  and  have  yet  time  to 
,n,  but  I  will  profit  by  it. 
•ously  paid,  Sulpice,  must 
ce,  nor  that  of  Sabine." 
roachfuily,  "are  you  too 

e;  "  but  I  have  some  sense 
)f  affection.  Besides,  you 
rto  made  of  money;  it  is 
ny  more.  I  am  only  con- 
,ve  a  relapse.  Calculating 
:hat  I  am  a  ready  account- 
yself  a  capital  of  30,000 
me  of  1500.     I  am  going 


id  Sabine. 

account  what  I  can  earn," 

ulpice  he  asked, 


LIPP-LAPP. 


285 


"What  do  you  give  your  cashier?" 

"  Six  thousand  francs." 

"  Poor  Dubois  is  dying,  is  he  not  ?  Will  you  give  me 
his  place  ?" 

"  I  cannot,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  Abb6  Pomereul. 

"  Ah,  I  understand  !    My  past  record." 

"God  forbid  that  I  should  doubt  your  repentance," 
said  the  priest,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion;  "  but  to  fill 
that  situation  you  must  know  book-keeping." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  asked  Xavier. 

"Of  course." 

"Then  it  is  settled,  for  I  know  book-keeping,"  said 
Xavier. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  it?" 

"For  nearly  a  year." 

"  Who  taught  you  ?"  ^  ^ 

"Dubois  himself,"  said  Xavier;  "and  the  poor  old 
fellow  almost  cried  with  joy  to  see  what  progress  I 
made," 

"  That  is  wonderful,"  said  Sabine. 

"  There  are  many  wonderful  things  accomplished  by 
the  same  power,"  said  Xavier;  "and  that  power  is  the 
grace  of  God." 

"  Well,  w6ll !"  said  the  Abbd  Pomereul. 

"  For  the  past  year,"  said  Xavier,  "  you  have  seen  me 
going  out  every  day,  and  have,  no  doubt,  believed  that  I 
had  returned  to  what  I  used  to  call  my  pleasures." 

"  No,  dear  boy,  no,  never !"  said  the  abb6. 

"I  admit  you  had  every  reason  to  suspect  me.  My 
faults  were  so  great  that  my  conversion  needed  to  be 
proved  by  facts.  I  promised  you  that  I  would  give 
proof  of  it.  One  morning  I  went  to  Dubois's  office.  He 
was  there  with  his  daughter  Louise,  a  pretty,  gentle 
creature.  They  were  both  writing,  the  young  girl  at 
her  father's  dictation.    Recognizing  me,  Dubois  rose  at 


286 


IDOLS. 


once,  out  of  respect  for  the  family  of  his  master;   bi.l 
he  did  not  offer  me  his  hand,  as  he  would  have  done  to 

you,  Sulpice."  .jr.,- 

"  He  hardly  knows  you,  Xavier,"  said  Sulpice. 
"The  distinction,  slight  as  it  was,  did  not  escape  me, 
continued  Xavier;  "but  it  was  just.  I  accepted  it  as 
such  This  man  owed  me  neither  esteem  nor  regard. 
Such  as  he  esteem  only  the  truly  deserving,  and  though 
the  unjust  sentence  which  had  sent  me  to  prison  was 
reversed,  I  was  none  the  less  the  worthless  and  ungrate- 
ful son,  who  had  opened  his  father's  safe." 

"Why  recall  these  painful  memories?"  said  Sabine 

^^^^I^have  no  right  to  forget  them,"  said  Xavier.  "Your 
very  kindness  impresses  them  forever  on  my  mind. 

"  And  Dubois  ?"  said  Sulpice. 

"Dubois  closed  his  books,  and  made  a  sign  to  his 
daughter.  Louise  was  about  to  leave  the  room.  I 
begged  her  to  remain." 

"  •  Sir  '  said  I,  addressing  that  living  example  of  honor 
and  honesty, 'might  I  ask  why  you  require  Mademoi- 
selle's services  ? ' 

"  The  old  man  reddened. 

"'My  sight  is  failing,'  said  he,  'and  my  strength 
declining.  I  have  need  of  young  eyes  and  ready  hands. 
Louise  helps  me  with  the  accounts.' 

"He  paused  a  moment,  and  continued  with  touching 

dignity,  ...  u     -  t 

"'The  Abb6  Pomereul  is  aware  of  this,  sir;  perhaps  1 
should  have  given  in  my  resignation,  when  I  found  my- 
self incapable  of  filling  the  office,  which  has  been  .imne 
for  forty  years.  But  I  love  this  place,  this  factory.  The 
workmen  regar4  me  almost  as  a^  father.  However,  sir, 
if  you  have  any  objection,  speak.' 

'With  a  man  like  you,'  I  said,  '  it  is  better  to  be  per- 


LIPP-LAPP. 


287 


lily  of  his  master;    but 
he  would  have  done  to 

,"  said  Sulpice. 

ras,  did  not  escape  me," 

just.     I  accepted  it  as 
her  esteem  nor  regard. 

deserving,  and  though 
sent  me  to  prison  was 

worthless  and  ungrate- 
ler's  safe." 
lemories?"  said  Sabine 

n,"  said  Xavier.     "Your 
rever  on  my  mind." 

nd  made  a  sign  to  his 
to  leave  the  room.      I 

living  example  of  honor 
y  you  require  Mademoi- 


i  he,  'and   my  strength 

ig  eyes  and  ready  hands. 

ints.' 

continued  with  touching 

are  of  this,  sir;  perhaps  I 
lation,  when  I  found  my- 
ice,  which  has  been  mine 
5  place,  this  factory.  The 
a  father.  However,  sir, 
k.' 
lid,  •  it  is  better  to  be  per- 


fectly frank.  You  are  teaching  Mademoiselle  book- 
keeping, will  you  also  teach  me  ? ' 

"  '  You,  sir!'  said  Dubois,  rising  in  his  amazement. 

"  I  gently  forced  him  back  into  his  chair,  and  went 
on. 

" '  My  faults  and  misfortunes,'  I  said,  '  have  attained 
such  publicity  that  I  owe  an  equally  public  reparation 
to  my  own  people  and  society  at  large.  Repentance 
does  not  consist  in  words;  it  must  be  proved  by  deeds. 
I  was  an  idler,  I  will  learn  to  work;  fond  of  dissipation, 
I  will  live  with  all  possible  regularity;  I  did  nothing, 
I  will  now  do  good.  Sulpice  sowed  the  good  seed,  do 
you  help  me  to  foster  it.  Let  me  be  your  pupil,  and 
while  you  teach  me  book-keeping,  the  heads  of  the  dif- 
ferent departments  will  initiate  me,  each  one  into  their 
several  employments.  I  know  Ihat  the  prodigal  son  will 
not  find  much  favor  with  these  hard-working  men.  But 
I  will  bear  anything.  A  time  will  come  when  I  shall 
reap  the  fruits  of  my  perseverance,  and  when  even  the 
rudest  workman  will  offer  me  his  hand.  Believe  me,  I 
shall  value  such  a  recompense.' 

"  Dubois  looked  at  me  in  silence,  but  I  saw  tears  in  his 
daughter's  eyes. 

"  I  resumed. 

"'You  loved  my  father,  M.  Dubois,  so  did  I;  spite  of 
all  my  faults,  I  loved  him  dearly.  His  death  made  him 
even  dearer  to  me.  Yet  though  I  have  repented,  I  dare 
not  yet  pray  beside  his  grave.  I  am  sorry  for  my  faults, 
but  I  have  not  yet  expiated  ther:.  I  shall  only  have  a 
right  to  go  there  when  I  am  abic  X-,  obey  his  last  com- 
mand, and  take  control  of  the  house  he  founded.' 

"  Dubois  was  still  silent. 

"  *  Oh,'  cried  I, '  will  you  refuse  to  help  me  ?  Surely 
you  cannot' 

**  He  spoke  then  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion. 


1  i     :| 


'MV^^m,::.- 


288 


IDOLS. 


"  '  You  appeal  to  my  affection  for  your  father,  sir ;  that 
suffices.    When  will  you  take  your  first  lesson  ? ' 
"  '  Now,'  I  answered. 

"  I  was  there  for  three  hours.  When  I  left  his  manner 
towards  me  no  less  than  his  words  delighted  me.  I  had 
not  learned  much  yet,  it  is  true,  but  I  felt  my  heart  grow 
light;  at  least  I  had  spent  my  time  well.  The  same  day 
I  got  books,  and  began  to  study  patiently  yet  ardently. 
Dubois  was  astonished  at  my  progress.  In  a  month  he 
brought  me  to  the  workshop,  where  he  had  probably  re- 
lated what  had  passed  between  us,  for  every  face  was 
friendly.  They  did  not  make  any  advances  to  me,  but 
they  did  not  repulse  me. 

"  Poor  Dubois  sank  rapidly,  and  sometimes  his  daugh- 
ter gave  me  my  lesson    in   his  place.     She  explained 
things  in  a  sweet  grave  voice,  clearly  and  precisely.     I 
never  saw  such  serenity  on  any  woman's  face  before." 
"  Really!"  said  Sabine,  with  a  mischievous  smile. 
"  You  are  malicious,"  said  Xavier,  smiling  too. 
"Go  on,"  said  Sulpice;  "do  not  heed  her  malice." 
« It  is  ever  thus,"  she  said  to  Sulpice;  "  they  see,  they 
hear,  they  love." 

"  Where  was  I? "  continued  Xavier.  "  Well,  a  few  days 
ago,  when  I  went  there,  instead  of  finding  M.  Dubois 
in  his  office,  I  found  Louise,  who  was  looking  very  pale, 
and  who  said  at  once,  'Would  you  be  so  kind,  sir,  as 
to  come  up  into  my  father's  room? ' 
** '  Certainly,'  I  answered. 
"  I  followed  her  trembling. 

"  Poor  Dubois  was  in  bed.  When  he  saw  me  he  tried 
to  raise  himself,  and  held  out  his  hand.  My  heart  leaped 
for  joy.  I  took  his  offered  hand  gratefully,  for  he  had 
been  the  friend  of  my  noble  father.  He  saw  my  emo- 
tion.    He  asked  me  to  sit  down. 

" '  Come,  come,'  said  he,  *  you  are  a  true  Pomereul. 


i.ipr-i.APK 


289 


r  your  father,  sir ;  that 
r  first  lesson  ? ' 

iVhen  I  left  his  manner 
5  delighted  me.  I  had 
ut  I  felt  my  heart  grow 
le  well.  The  same  day 
patiently  yet  ardently, 
gress.  In  a  month  he 
re  he  had  probably  re- 
us, for  every  face  was 
y  advances  to  me,  but 

i  sometimes  his  daugh- 
place.     She  explained 
early  and  precisely.     I 
Oman's  face  before." 
nischievous  smile, 
er,  smiling  too. 
t  heed  her  malice." 
julpice;  "  they  see,  they 

ner.  "  Well,  a  few  days 
I  of  finding  M.  Dubois 
)  was  looking  very  pale, 
you  be  so  kind,  sir,  as 
a?' 


iThen  he  saw  me  he  tried 
hand.  My  heart  leaped 
d  gratefully,  for  he  had 
then    He  saw  my  emo- 

u  are  a  true  Pomereul. 


Your  conduct  leaves  me  less  regret  now  that  I  must  go.' 

"  '  But  you  must  not  go,*  I  said. 

"  *  They  are  calling  me  up  there,  sir,'  he  said,  'but  my 
last  labors  have  been  successful.  You  know  I  was 
named  the  model  cashier.  My  books  are  in  order.  My 
accounts  ready.  There  are  as  few  errors  on  the  pages  of 
my  registers  as  faults  upon  my  conscience.  You  now 
know  as  much  as  I  do;  you  must  henceforth  take  my 
place. ' 

"  I  heard  a  heart-rending  sob.  It  was  from  Louise, 
whose  face  was  hidden  on  her  father's  bed. 

"'Alone!  I  must  leave  her  alone!'  murmured  the 
old  man. 

"'  No,'  said  I;  '  Sabine  will  befriend  her.' 

"Thanks, dear  brother,"  said  Sabine;  "you  anticipated 
me. 

"  I  stayed  longer  than  usual  that  day  at  Charenton," 
resumed  Xavier.  "  I  did  not  sleep  much  all  night,  for  I 
was  weighing  the  great  responsibility  that  I  was  about 
to  assume.     May  I  take  Dubois's  place,  dear  Sulpice  ?" 

"  Xavier,"  said  the  Abb6  Sulpice,  "  you  do  not  know 
what  consolation  you  give  me.  Ye»,  brother,  with  all 
my  heart.  Repair  your  faults,  work,  make  new  prog- 
ress every  day,  pray." 

"  And  love,"  said  Sabine  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  that,"  said  Xavier.  "  I  am  not  worthy 
of  such  happiness  yet." 

"  To-morrow^,"  resumed  Sulpice,  "  we  will  go  together 
to  Charenton.  I  want  to  install  you  myself  in  your  new 
place." 

"  And  I  to  make  an  agreement  with  Louise,"  said  Sa- 
bine. 

"  Ever  the  best  of  sisters,"  said  Xavier. 

"  It  is  sweet  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  others," 
said  she 


mmm 


290 


IDOLS. 


*'  Will  you  never  think  of  your  own  ?"  said  he. 

Sabine  shook  her  head. 

"  My  happiness  was  a  dream,  Xavier,"  she  said.  "  He 
who  should  have  kept  the  shrine  and  the  figure  it  con- 
tained inviolate  has  offered  sacrifice  to  false  gods." 

"  You  are  too  severe,  Sabine." 

"  I  am  just." 

"  But  it  was  your  rejection  drove  Benedict  to  despair." 

"  One  who  does  not  know  how  to  suffer,"  said  she,  "  is 
not  worthy  to  be  happy.  Besides,  brother,  the  man 
whom  I  loved  was  the  Christian  artist,  despising  the 
easy  success  which  is  a  disgrace  to  the  chisel  and  a 
stain  upon  a  character.  The  papers  are  loud  in  his 
praise  just  now,  I  know;  he  is  doing  a  work  which  will 
give  him  a  high  place  amongst  our  sculptors,  '  Hylas 
and  the  Nymphs,'  but  a  work  which  would  make  me 
blush.  No,  this  devotee  of  pagan  art  is  not  the  man 
from  whom  I  accepted  the  statuette,  to  whom  I  gave  my 
hand,  and  from  whom  I  received  a  betrothal  ring." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  though  she  spoke  calmly 
and  her  face  was  pale. 

"You  are  suffering,  Sabine,"  cried  Xavier,  "you  are 
suffering." 

"Yes,  I  do  not  deny  it,"  said  she,  "but  I  will  be  firm. 
God  can  console  every  sorrow,  and  will  calm  this  as 
well.  Virtue,  Xavier,  is  often  like  the  bitter  draught 
given  to  the  patient,  the  honey  of  sacrifice  is  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cup.  I  weep  not  so  much  for  Benedict  as 
for  my  old  faith  in  him.  I  weep  for  the  noble  and  dis- 
intecested  man,  who  refused  a  dowry  from  my  father; 
the  good  and  honest  man,  who  led  a  life  of  strict  integ- 
rity and  practical  piety;  the  artist,  who  despised  the 
approbation  of  the  vulgar,  and  had  Christ  too  clearly 
before  his  eyes  to  ever  set  up  base  idols  in  opposition." 
Xavier  kissed  his  sister. 


•IT 


own  ?"  said  he. 

fCavier,"  she  said.  "  He 
5  and  the  figure  it  con- 
lice  to  false  gods." 


ve  Benedict  to  despair." 
to  suffer,"  said  she,  "  is 
sides,  brother,  the  man 
in  artist,  despising  the 
:e  to  the  chisel  and  a 
papers  are  loud  in  his 
loing  a  work  which  will 
t  our  sculptors,  '  Hylas 
which  would  make  me 
jan  art  is  not  the  man 
itte,  to  whom  I  gave  my 
I  a  betrothal  ring." 
hough  she  spoke  calmly 

cried  Xavier,  "you  are 

she,  "but  I  will  be  firm. 
,  and  will  calm  this  as 
like  the  bitter  draught 
:y  of  sacrifice  is  at  the 
so  much  for  Benedict  as 
p  for  the  noble  and  dis- 
dowry  from  my  father; 
led  a  life  of  strict  integ- 
irtist,  who  despised  the 
had  Christ  too  clearly 
,se  idols  in  opposition." 


LIPP-LAl'P. 


391 


"  You  are  a  noble  girl,"  said  he. 

"  Do  not  pity  me,  Xavier,"  said  she,  "  if  I  lose  the 
world  I  will  gain  heaven;  and  we  can  each  have  our  little 
martyrdom,  though  we  do  not  bear,  like  Sulpice,  the 
aureola  upon  our  foreheads." 

Ne.\t  day,  according  to  promise,  Sulpice  accompanied 
Xavier  and  Sabine  to  Charenton.  TI.ey  went  first  to  see 
Dubois.    At  sight  of  Sulpice  his  face  lit  up. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said. 

The  priest  sat  down  at  the  bedside,  and  the  rest  re- 
tired. While  Sabine  conversed  in  a  low  voice  with 
Louise,  Xavier  regarded  the  two  girls  attentively.  They 
formed  a  charming  contrast.  Sabine,  fair,  delicate,  and 
slender;  Louise,  a  perfect  brunette.  Louise  was  crying 
bitterly,  and  Sabine  consoling  her  with  many  affectionate 
words.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  Sulpice  called  them 
back  to  the  sick-room.  Dubois  drew  his  daughter  to  his 
breast. 

"  I  am  dying,"  said  he,"  but  the  Lord  in  His  mercy  has 
granted  me  a  last  grace;  He  never  forsakes  those  who 
put  their  trust  in  Him.  You  will  not  be  alone  in  the 
world.  The  Pomereul  family  will  adopt  you.  To  them 
I  leave  you." 

Louise  only  answered  by  her  tears.  The  father  drew 
his  daughter's  face  closer  to  his  own,  and  whispered 
some  words  which  the  others  did  not  hear.  They 
seemed  to  disturb  her,  for  she  blushed  and  trembled. 

"  It  is  my  last  wish,"  said  her  father. 

"  Father,  oh  father  !"  cried  she. 

"  A  sacred  request,"  said  he. 

Louise  might  have  objected  further,  but  her  father 
took  her  hand  from  before  her  face,  and  said, 

"  Promise,  till  I  bless  you." 

"I  promise,"  said  she,  kissing  the  hand  which  was 
about  to  bless  her. 


292 


IDOLS. 


Sabine  stayed  all  night  with  Louise..  Sulpice  went 
back  with  Xavier  to  Paris.  The  latter  seemed  greatly 
dejected;  he  hardly  spoke  to  his  brother,  and  Sulpice 
saw  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  ask  the  secret  of  this 
poignant  regret,  for  did  not  Xavier  know  that  it  was  the 
priest's  mission  to  share  all  sufferings  and  console  all 
pain  ?  Next  day  they  went  again  to  Charenton,  and,  hav- 
ing seen  Dubois  and  Louise,  Xavier  was  installed  in  his 
new  position.  Thenceforth  he  entered  upon  its  duties. 
When  Sulpice  saw  him  through  the  glass  doors  of  the 
office,  surrounded  by  papers  and  books  tipped  with 
brass,  writing  busily  and  wholly  absorbed  in  his  work, 
he  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  of  joy.  Xavier 
showed  him  the  books. 

"What  do  you  say  to  that  writing,"  said  he,  "  and  my 
figures?  I  have  made  progress  since  I  used  to  scrawl 
my  morning  notes." 

"  Indeed  you  have,"  said  Sulpice;  "  I  am  more  than 
satisfttd  with  you," 

For  a  week  Dubois  struggled  with  that  terrible  con- 
queror Death.  Not  that  he  feared  it,  for  he  had  lived 
well;  but  the  earthly  tenement  still  sought  to  retain  its 
tenant,  the  soul.  He  died  in  his  daughter's  arms,  press- 
ing the  crucifix  which  Sulpice  held  to  his  lips. 

The  news  ov  the  honest  cashier's  death  brought  gen- 
eral grief  to  the  factory.  The  workshops  were  closed, 
and  the  workmen  all  went  to  pray  beside  his  mortal  re- 
mains. Sulpice  and  Xavier  paid  the  expenses  of 
the  funeral,  and  the  faithful  clerk  was  buried  with 
the  greatest  honor.  But  besides  the  richness  of  the 
funeral  draperies,  there  was  a  great  concourse  of  people. 
When  a  stranger  stopped,  surprised  at  the  display,  to 
ask  who  was  being  buried,  the  Charenton  men  replied 
proudly: 

"  An  employ6  of  the  house  of  Pomereul." 


LIPP-LAPP. 


293 


Louise..  Sulpice  went 
latter  seemed  greatly 
s  brother,  and  Sulpice 
t  ask  the  secret  of  this 
;r  know  that  it  was  the 
erings  and  console  all 
to  Charenton,  and,  hav- 
ier  was  installed  in  his 
ntered  upon  its  duties, 
the  glass  doors  of  the 
id  books  tipped  with 
absorbed  in  his  work, 
mation  of  joy.    Xavier 

ing,"  said  he,  "  and  my 
since  I  used  to  scrawl 

ice;  "I  am  more  than 

with  that  terrible  con- 
red  it,  for  he  had  lived 
ill  sought  to  retain  its 
daughter's  arms,  press- 
Id  to  his  lips, 
er's  death  brought  gen- 
workshops  were  closed, 
y  beside  his  mortal  re- 
paid the  expenses  of 
clerk  was  buried  with 
es  the  richness  of  the 
eat  concourse  of  people, 
rised  at  the  display,  to 
Charenton  men  replied 

Pomereul." 


Dubois  had  asked  that  a  cross  might  be  placed  over 
his  grave.  So  a  cross  rose  among  flowers  upon  his 
funeral  mound.  When  the  grave-digger  had  finished 
his  dismal  task,  Louise  drew  near  the  monument,  hold- 
ing two  wreaths  in  her  hand.  She  hung  one  upon  an 
arm  of  the  cross,  and  Xavier,  seeing  that  she  kept  the 
other,  said, 

"You  are  forgetting  this  one." 
"No,"  said  she,  "it  is  for  our  benefactor." 
And  in  fact  the  coachman  had  evidently  received 
orders,  for  on  leaving  Charenton,  instead  oi  going  to- 
wards home,  he  drove  to  Montmartre.  Xavier  was 
silent,  but  his  emotion  was  deep.  He  dared  not  ques- 
tion his  brother,  and  Sabine,  who  had  her  arm  about 
Louise,  avoided  meeting  his  eye.  Never,  since  M.  Pom- 
ereul's  death,  had  Xavier  accompanied  them  to  the  grave 
of  the  father  whose  life  he  had  embittered.  It  seemed 
that  Sulpice  was  now  bringing  him  there,  as  if  to  say, 

"Repentance  has  effaced  your  faults.  Be  restored  to 
your  rights;  in  the  name  of  our  dead  father,  I  pardon 
you." 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  cemetery. 
They  all  alighted.  Louise  would  have  fallen,  but  Xavier 
silently  offered  her  his  arm. 

It  was. a  melancholy  autumn  day,  the  dreariness  of 
which  was  the  more  perceptible  that  it  was  among  the 
first;  the  dead  leaves  crackled  under  foot,  gray  clouds 
scudded  across  the  sky,  driven  by  a  chilly  wind.  The 
roses  were  all  dead,  and  the  late  chrysanthemums  reared 
their  purple  heads,  already  touched  by  the  frost.  Sulpice 
walked  first,  and  Sabine  and  he  were  soon  kneeling  be- 
fore a  marble  tomb.  A  sort  of  awe  kept  Xavier  back, 
but  Sulpice,  turning,  said  simply,  "  Come." 

And  Louise,  offering  him  the  wreath,  said,  "  Go." 
Xavier  took  it,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  fell  prostrate  on 


.    *!> 


.  ^t 


294 


IDOLS. 


the  marble  slab,  sobbing  aloud.    Through  his  sobs  one 
word  could  be  distinguished:  "  Pardon  !  pardon  !" 

Sulpice  whispered  to  his  sister, 

"  Take  Louise  away,  and  leave  me  with  Xavier." 

The  young  girl  obeyed. 

And  the  two  brothers  remained  alone  in  the  vast  ceme- 
tery, already  overhung  with  shadows. 

Sulpice  knelt  beside  Xavier,  and  said, 

"  You  have  asked  our  father's  pardon.     Now  ask  par- 
don of  God." 

"  You  wish — "  said  Xavier,  bewildered. 

"That,  prostrating  yourself  here  in  this  place  of 
mourning,  you  should  arise  purified  from  every  stain." 

"  But  how  can  I  ?    I  am  not  prepared,"  said  Xavier. 

"  To  open  your  heart  to  the  priest  ?"  said  Sulpice.  "  To 
go  to  confession  ?  Why,  your  amendment  of  life  for  the 
past  year  and  your  present  tears  are  preparation  enough. 
The  suffering  soul  is  always  well  prepared  to  receive 
grace,  salvation,  mercy.  And  can  I  not  assist  you  ?  Can 
any  other  heart  as  well  as  mine  console  yours?  My 
tears  will  be  united  with  yours,  and  if  the  sacrifice  of 
a  life,  the  holocaust  of  a  heart  be  necessary,  I  am  a  vol- 
untary victim,  offering  up  the  merits  of  a  God  to  obtain 
mercy  for  you." 

What  passed  after  that  was  known  to  God  alone. 

The  ardor  of  the  apostle,  the  eloquence  of  the  preacher, 
the  piety  of  the  priest,  and  the  affection  of  a  brother,  all 
combined  to  soften  and  touch  that  still  rebellious  heart; 
and  when  the  words  of  absolution  had  fallen  on  Xavier, 
Sulpice  clasped  his  hands  with  indescribable  joy. 

•  Father,"  said  he,  "your  lost  son  is  found  ;  the  dead 
has  come  to  life." 

Tears  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow,  the  outpourings  of 
a  heart  ennobled  by  its  priestly  office,  the  repentance,  the 
firm  purpose  of  amendment,  and  the  sweetness  of  recon- 


LIPP-LAPP. 


295 


Through  his  sobs  one 
Pardon !  pardon  !" 

r, 

e  me  with  Xavier." 

ed  alone  in  the  vast  ceme- 

dows. 

.nd  said, 

1  pardon.    Now  ask  par- 

jwildered. 

here  in  this  place  of 
ified  from  every  stain." 
prepared,"  said  Xavier. 
riest  ?"  said  Sulpice.  "  To 
imendment  of  life  for  the 
s  are  preparation  enough, 
well  prepared  to  receive 
:an  I  not  assist  you  ?  Can 
ine  console  yours?  My 
rs,  and  if  the  sacrifice  of 
i)e  necessary,  I  am  a  vol- 
aerits  of  a  God  to  obtain 

cnown  to  God  alone, 
eloquence  of  the  preacher, 
affection  of  a  brother,  all 
hat  still  rebellious  heart; 
ion  had  fallen  on  Xavier, 
indescribable  joy. 
t  son  is  found  ;  the  dead 

rrow,  the  outpourings  of 
'  office,  the  repentance,  the 
id  the  sweetness  of  recon- 


ciliation with  God,  were  all  experienced  by  the  two 
brothers;  they  knew  the  joy  which  God  reserves  for 
those  who  love  Him.  It  grew  dark,  and  Sulpice  took  his 
brother  away.  They  hired  a  cab,  and  were  soon  speed- 
ing towards  the  Chauss6e  d'Antin. 

As  far  up  as  the  Rue  de  la  Victoire,  an  immense  crowd 
impeded  the  driver's  progress.  Carriages  were  all 
drawn  up,  and  horses  pawed  the  ground  impatiently. 
Shouts  of  laughter,  which  seemed  contagious,  could  be 
heard  in  the  distance,  and  repeated  through  the  crowd, 
with  cries  of: 

"  He'll  catch  him."    "  No,  he  won't  catch  him." 

"Let  us  get  out,"  said  Xavier;  "we  may  be  kept  an 
hour  here,  and  we  can  make  our  way  through  the 
crowd." 

They  paid  the  man  his  fare,  and  attempted  to  force  a 
passage  for  themselves.  But  it  was  useless.  They  had 
to  wait.  They  got  on  a  few  steps,  when  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  the  crowd  thrust  them  back  farther  than  ever. 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?"  asked  Xavier  of  a  spectator. 

"I  hardly  know,  sir;^  but  it's  something  about  a 
monkey." 

"Just  like  Jocko,  the  monkey  of  Brazil,"  said  a  boy. 
"I  saw  that  at  the  Ambigu  for  fifteen  sous." 

"  A  monkey  ?"  repeated  Xavier. 

"  Just  imagine,  citizen,"  said  the  boy  in  a  shrill  voice, 
"about  ten  minutes  ago  this  great  devil  of  an  ape  was 
sitting  upon  a  balcony,  watching  the  passers-by  with  a 
melancholy  face.  He  must  belong  to  some  people  who 
have  chic,  for  his  dress,  which  would  be  a  Mardi  Gras 
for  us,  looks  like  the  big  pictures  in  the  Louvre.  There 
he  lay,  like  the  Pacha  of  Egypt,  on  silk  cushions,  looking 
about  him.  I  was  looking  about,  too,  and  seeing  the 
ape,  began  to  make  faces  at  him,  which  he  returned — an 
exchange  of  civilities.    But  all  of  a  sudden  he  got  on  his 


'X 


mmm 


296 


IDOLS. 


feet— I  wouldn't  say  claws  to  a  man  of  the  woods  so  w 
dressed  that  la  Belle  Jardiniere  has  nothing  to  equal  hi 
He  leaned  over  the  balcony  and  looked  down,  growli 
all  the  time  to  himself.  I  looked  in  the  same  directic 
and  saw  a  fine  young  man  in  a  blue  blouse.  He  seem 
like  a  printer,  for  you  see,  citizen,  I  always  think  th 
printers — " 

"  What  next,  what  next  ?"  cried  Xavier  impatiently. 
"You  are  interested  ?  All  right,  I'll  go  on.  The  fi 
young  man  with  the  black  hair  and  red  foulard  neckl 
was  going  along  gayly,  swinging  a  stick.  I  belie 
the  monkeys  are  about  tired  of  sticks  ;  they  got  t« 
much  of  them  among  the  negroes." 

"Go  on,  go  on  !"  cried  Xavier  excitedly. 
"  Decidedly,  I  am  a  success.  I  must  learn  to  reci 
the  '/<?  te  ramene '  that  I  heard  at  the  Comedie  Fran9ais 
with  an  old  gentleman's  ticket.  To  return  to  the  ap 
The  young  man  was  spreading  himself  like  a  chap  thai 
got  chink  in  his  pockets,  when  all  of  a  sudden  the  mo 
key  jumped  over  the  balcony  and  rushed  at  him.  ¥ 
was  frightened,  and  yelled  like  anything;  off  he  ran,  ar 
the  monkey  after  him.  Everybody  laughed,  shoute 
and  cried  out,  '  He'll  catch  him,'  *  No,  he  won't.'  It's  s 
very  fine,  though,  but  I'm  taking  proofs  to  an  autho 
and  this  has  delayed  me  exactly  thirty-five  minutes.  Bi 
I'll  tell  him  all  about  it;  he  can  make  it  into  copy,  an 
I'll  ask  a  share  in  the  copyright." 

"  Here's  for  your  story,"  said  Xavier,  putting  his  han 
in  his  pocket  and  drawing  out  a  twenty-franc  piec 
which  he  gave  to  the  boy. 

"You  must  be  a  prince  in  disguise,"  said  the  bo' 
"  I'll  catch  the  monkey,  if  you  like,  for  the  same  price! 
"  Do,  if  you  can,"  said  Xavier. 
"  We  think  alike,"  said  Sulpice,  « it  is  Lipp-Lapp." 
But  the  crowd  all  at  once  changed  its  tone,  and  excls 


OLS. 


LIPr-LAPP. 


29; 


:o  a  man  of  the  woods  so  well 
^re  has  nothing  to  equal  him. 
f  and  looked  down,  growling 
ooked  in  the  same  direction, 
n  a  blue  blouse.  He  seemed 
,  citizen,  I  always  think  that 

'  cried  Xavier  impatiently. 
1  right,  I'll  go  on.  The  fine 
hair  and  red  foulard  necktie 
winging  a  stick.  I  believe 
ed  of  sticks  ;  they  got  too 
Jgroes." 
ivier  excitedly, 
ess.  I  must  learn  to  recite 
rd  at  the  Comedie  Fran9aise, 
cket.  To  return  to  the  ape. 
ng  himself  like  a  chap  that's 
en  all  of  a  sudden  the  mon- 
ny  and  rushed  at  him.  He 
ike  anything;  off  he  ran,  and 
irerybody  laughed,  shouted, 
lim,'  *  No,  he  won't.'  It's  all 
aking  proofs  to  an  author, 
:tly  thirty-five  minutes.  But 
can  make  it  into  copy,  and 
ght." 

aid  Xavier,  putting  his  hand 
:  out  a  twenty-franc  piece, 

in  disguise,"  said  the  boy. 

)u  like,  for  the  same  price." 

^ier. 

Ipice,  "  it  is  Lipp-Lapp." 

changed  its  tone,  and  excla- 


n?ations  of  horror  and  anxiety  were  heard  on  all  sides. 

"  The  man's  lost,"  cried  they. 

"  Will  no  one  kill  the  cursed  beast  ?"  cried  one. 

"  How  fiercely  he  growls  over  his  prey!"  cried  another; 
"  it's  horrible  !" 

Xavier  and  Sulpice  threw  themselves  blindly  into  the 
crowd,  and  scon  reached  the  scene  of  horror.  For  such 
it  really  was.  He  whom  the  boy  had  described  as  a  fine 
young  man  was  now  pale,  haggard,  badly  bitten,  his 
throat  encircled  by  the  bony  fingers  of  the  ape,  gasping 
for  breath  and  writhing  in  agony.  No  one  dared  to  ap- 
proach the  terrible  beast;  they  waited  for  the  appearance 
of  the  police.  At  last  a  policeman  came,  sword  in  hand, 
and  was  about  to  attack  the  ape,  when  Xavier  interposed. 

"The  ape  is  mine;  you  must  not  kill  it,"  he  said. 

"  But  the  animal  is  mad,  sir,"  remonstrated  the  officer. 

"  Do  you  observe,"  said  Xavier,  holding  the  policeman 
back,  "  the  chimpanzee  has  just  torn  off  the  black  wig 
and  disclosed  the  man's  real  hair,  which  is  of  a  peculiar 
red  ?" 

Looking  at  the  wretch  closely,  a  light  flashed  on 
Xavier's  mind. 

"Marc  Mauduit !"  he  cried. 

And  fairly  bruising  the  officer's  arm  in  his  nervous 
grasp,  he  said, 

"On  my  soul,  sir,  Lipp-Lapp  has  just  arrested  the 
accomplice  of  Jean  Machfi,  who  murdered  my  father !" 

The  policeman  immediately  seized  Marc  Mauduit,  as 
Xavier  called  off  Lipp-Lapp.  The  latter  seemed  to 
understand  that  it  was  all  right.  He  showed  his  teeth 
in  a  broad  grin,  and  opening  his  brocade  gown,  pointed 
to  a  large  white  mark  on  his  breast.  It  was  the  scar  of 
the  wound  which  Fleur  d'Echafaud  had  given  him. 
Then  waving  triumphantly  t  .e  tuft  of  red  hair  which  he 
held  in  his  clenched  hand,  he  offered  it  to  Xavier.    Just 


298 


IDOLS. 


as  the  ape  had  garroted  Marc  Mauduit,  and  Xavier  and 
Sulpice  had  witnessed  the  sudden  denouement  of  the 
bloody  tragedy  which  had  begun  by  the  murder  of 
their  father,  a  deformed  creature  suddenly  appeared 
emerging  from  the  Rue  de  Provence. 

Fleur  d'Echafaud  recognized  her. 

"  Naine  !"  cried  he,  "oh  Naine  !" 

The  physical  monster  looked  into  the  face  of  the  moral 
monster,  and  an  expression  of  sardonic  joy  lit  up  her 
eyes,  as,  clapping  her  hands  in  savage  glee,  she  cried, 

"  Andr6  Nicois,  it  is  our  turn  now  !" 


II! 


Mauduit,  and  Xavier  and 

udden   denouement  of   the 

}egun  by   the  murder  of 

ature  suddenly  appeared 

ovence. 

d  her. 

ne !" 

1  into  the  face  of  the  moral 

if  sardonic  joy  lit  up  her 

1  savage  glee,  she  cried, 

n  now !" 


THE  dwarf's  secret.  299 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
The  Dwarf's  Secret. 

The  Naine  ran  at  full  speed  through  the  streets,  jos- 
tling the  passers-by,  upsetting  flower-stands,  deaf  to  in- 
vectives or  taunts.  She  only  stopped  when,  as  she  was 
about  to  cross  the  great  court-yard  of  the  banker's 
dwelling,  a  tall  lackey  in  gorgeous  livery  seized  her  by 
one  of  her  long  arms,  and  dragged  her  almost  from  under 
the  horses'  feet.  The  two  splendid  horses  were  attached 
to  a  carriage  just  then  entering  the  yard.  In  this  mag- 
nificent equipage  sat  a  lady  still  young  and  sumptuously 
attired,  upon  whose  features,  beneath  their  mask  of 
pride,  was  the  imprint  of  some  consuming  sorrow.  The 
Naine  looked  at  her  with -an  expression  of  such  intense 
hatred  that  the  banker's  wife  was  startled.  Leaning  out 
of  the  carriage,  she  said  imperiously, 

"  You  know  very  well  I  allow  no  beggars  here." 

The  Naine  gave  a  fierce  laugh. 

"  I  do  not  come  to  beg,"  she  said,     "  I  come  to  sell." 

The  horses  and  carriage  passed  on,  and  the  lackey  was 
about  to  obey  his  mistress's  injunction  and  drive  the 
Naine  from  the  yard,  but  she  pushed  him  aside  with 
astonishing  strength,  and  said  to  the  footman  at  the 
door, 

"Your  master  is  in.    I  must  see  him." 

Her  tone  was  such  that,  the  man  hesitated. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  think,  you  living  curiosity,"  said 
he  at  last,  "  that  my  master  receives  people  of  your  sort  ? 
Be  thankful  if  he  throws  you  some  sous." 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said  to  his  wife?"  cried  the 
Naine.     "  I  don't  ask  for  anything,  I  bring  something. 


«*»•• 


3CX) 


IDOLS. 


Listen  !  The  millionaire  banker  does  not  often  give 
audiences,  but  I  promise  you  he  will  turn  you  away  to- 
morrow if  you  do  not  let  me  in.  I  want  to  speak  to  him, 
and  I  will  see  him,  if  I  have  to  crouch  like  a  dog  at  his 
door  till  he  comes  out." 

"  Out  of  this !"  said  the  lackey,  pushing  her  with  his 
I    Ijj  foot,  "  or  I'll  call  the  police." 

"  The   Naine   shrugged   her  shoulders,   and  began   to 

fumble  in  her  pocket,  producing  at  length  an  old  paper 
I    III  and  a  placard  yellow  and  falling  to  pieces  with  age. 

"  Can  you  read  ?"  she  said  to  the  lackey. 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  your  papers,"  said  he. 

"Run  your  eye  over  that,"  said  she;  "it  will  make 
your  fortune,  perhaps." 

The  lackey  read  a  few  lines,  stopped  in  astonishment, 
and  looking  at  the  Naine,  said,  "Well?" 

"  Take  those  to  the  banker,  and  say  that  a  person  who 
brings  him  news  is  waiting." 

The  lackey  suddenly  changed  his  mind  about  the 
^  dwarf,  and,  anxious  to  display  his  great  zeal,  refused  tc 
transmit  the  commission  to  M.  Nicois'  valet,  but  ran  up- 
stairs himself,  and  asked  to  speak  to  the  banker.  The 
banker,  in  surprise,  told  them  to  admit  the  man.  The 
latter,  whose  name  was  Lamourel,  bent  double  and  said, 
in  a  voice  of  well-feigned  emotion, 

"You  will  pardon  my  unusual  conduct,  sir,  in  con- 
sideration of  my  motive." 

"  What  is  your  motive,  and  what  do  you  want,  La- 
mourel ?"  said  Nicois. 

"  I  thought  there  was  no  use  letting  the  whole  house 
into  your  secrets,  sir,"  said  Lamourel  mysteriously. 

"  I  have  no  secrets.      What  do  you    mean  ?"  cried 
i  jii  Nicois. 

I  "  I  do  not  venture  to  pry  into  my  master's  affairs,"  said 

j  the  servant;  "  I  only  wished  to  save  hira  a  great  shock." 


,s. 


inker  does  not  often  give 

he  will  turn  you  away  to- 

n.     I  want  to  speak  to  him, 

o  crouch  like  a  dog  at  his 

:key,  pushing  her  with  his 

shoulders,   and  began  to 
tng  at  length  an  old  paper 
ing  to  pieces  with  age. 
;o  the  lackey, 
tapers,"  said  he. 
"  said  she;  "it  will  make 

i,  stopped  in  astonishment, 
d,  "Well?" 
and  say  that  a  person  who 

iged  his  mind  about  the 
y  his  great  zeal,  refused  to 
I.  Nicois'  valet,  but  ran  up- 
speak  to  the  banker.  The 
n  to  admit  the  man.  The 
lurel,  bent  double  and  said, 
Qtion, 

usual  conduct,  sir,  in  con- 
id  what  do  you  want,  La- 

se  letting  the  whole  house 

amourel  mysteriously. 

lat  do  you    mean?"  cried 

to  my  master's  affairs,"  said 
to  save  hira  a  great  shock." 


THE   dwarf's   secret. 


301 


"  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  Lamourel,  and  be  done 
with  it.     I  am  busy,"  said  Nicois  impatiently. 

"  Do  you  recognize  this,  sir  ?"  said  the  lackey,  laying 
the  paper  open  on  the  banker's  desk,  and  taking  care  to 
point  out  the  paragraph  indicated  by  the  Naine. 

The  banker  scarcely  suppressed  a  cry  of  pain. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ?"  he  cried.  "  What  do  you 
want  ?    Why  do  you  revive — " 

"  There  is  a  woman  below." 

"  A  woman  ?    Go  on." 

"  She  brings  you  some  news." 

"  And  she  gave  you  this  placard  and  this  paper  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Why  did  you  not  bring  her  here  at  once  ?  Run  down 
for  her,  Lamourel !" 

"  Because  she  is  poor,  deformed,  hideous." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  She  may  possess  the  hap« 
piness  of  my  whole  life."  • 

Lamourel  hastened  out. 

Andr6  Nicois,  a  prey  to  conflicting  emotions,  read 
over  every  line  of  the  paragraph  in  the  paper  which  the 
Naine  had  so  carefully  preserved.  In  the  column  of 
casualties,  were  the  lines: 

"  A  terrible  misfortune  has  befallen  a  highly  respected 
family.  A  child  belonging  to  M.  Andr6  Nicois  was 
stolen  while  walking  with  its  nurse.  The  unfortunate 
girl,  feeling  that  she  had  neglected  her  charge,  would 
have  drowned  herself  but  for"  the  intervention  of  the 
police.  Every  effort  has  been  made  to  find  the  banker's 
son-,  but  hitherto  with  no  success.  Fears  are  entertained 
that  the  mother  will  lose  her  reason." 

"  How  well  I  remember !  How  well  1  remember," 
gasped  Nicois,  "  my  beautiful  boy,  my  idolized  Marc ! 
Shall  I  at  last  find  the  key  to  this  enigma  ?  Will  he  be 
restored  to  me  after  twenty  years  ?    How  much  he  may 


inmnimi  iifilwfMiiiiiWw* 


402 


IDOLS. 


have  suffered  !  What  has  he  become  ?  What  is  he  doing  ? 
His  misfortunes  will  only  make  him  dearer  to  me.  Oh  ! 
why  does  not  this  woman  come  ?  What  is  keeping 
her?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  Naine  entered  the  room.  Prepared 
as  he  had  been  to  behold  a  wretched  object,  the  banker 
was  surprised.  Ke  scarcely  restrained  a  gesture  of 
disgust  and  abhorrence;  but  overcoming  his  repugnance, 
he  held  out  the  paper  to  the  Naine. 

"  You  brought  this,  saying  you  had  some  revelation  to 
make,"  said  the  banker. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Naine  brusquely. 

"  Well,  speak  out,  tell  me  all,  and  be  assured  I  shall 
not  be  ungrateful." 

"  I  also  brought  you  a  placard,"  said  the  Naine. 

"  Yes,  relating  to  the  same  occurrence.  Tell  me  what 
you  know." 

"I  want  you  first  to  re-read  the  placard,"  said  the 
Naine. 

Andr6  Nicois  read  in  a  low  voice: 

"A  reward  of  25,000  francs  is  offered  for  whoever  will 
discover  and  bring  back  to  A.  Nicois,  banker,  his  stolen 
child—" 

"  That's  enough,"  said  the  Naine;  "  have  you  the  25,000 
francs  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  ready  to  pay  them.  I  will  double  the 
sum.     I  will  sacrifice  half  my  fortune." 

"The  sum  mentioned  will  do,"  said  the  Naine;  "only 
it  must  be  paid  in  advance." 

"  Do  you  doubt  me  ?"  said  the  banker. 

"  It  is  my  habit,"  answered  the  Naine.  ^ 

"  But  should  your  information  be  insufficient" 

"It  is  such  as  will  enable  you  to  see  your  son  to- 
morrow, if  you  wish." 

"  You  have  proofs  and  documents  ?" 


THE   DWARF  S  SECRET. 


303 


come  ?  What  is  he  doing  ? 
e  him  dearer  to  me.  Oh  ! 
:ome?     What  is  keeping 

red  the  room.  Prepared 
etched  object,  the  banker 
restrained  a  gesture  of 
rercoming  his  repugnance, 
aine. 
ou  had  some  revelation  to 

brusquely. 

.11,  and  be  assured  I  shall 

rd,"  said  the  Naine. 
)ccurrence.     Tell  me  what 

id  the  placard,"  said  the 

voice: 

is  offered  for  whoever  will 
Nicois,  banker,  his  stolen 

aine;  "  have  you  the  25,000 

y  them.     I  will  double  the 

fortune." 

o,"  said  the  Naine;  "only 

le  banker. 

the  Naine.  ^ 

on  be  insufficient" 

you'  to  see  your  son  to- 

ments  ?" 


"Proofs  and  memories,  proofs  and  documents,"  she 
repeated. 

"Are  you  aware,"  said  Andr6  Nicois,  "that  you  are 
acting  in  a  very  suspicious  manner  ?  I  could  have  you 
arrested." 

" Have  me  arrested,"  said  the  Naine;  "what  can  you 
say  against  me  ?  What  can  you  prove  ?  I  am  poor,  de- 
formed, and  ugly,  but  I  work  as  a  servant  now,  and  used 
to  be  exhibited  at  country  fairs  as  a  deformity.  Yet 
hitherto  I  have  not  done  anything  that  comes  within  the 
province  of  the  police.  Drive  me  out  or  have  me 
arrested,  whichever  you  please,  but  I  will  not  speak  till 
I  have  got  the  25,000  francs." 

Nicois  opened  a  drawer  and  counted  out  the  money, 
handing  it  to  the  Naine. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  he  said  simply. 

"Will  you  give  orders  that  no  one  interrupts  us?"  said 
the  Naine;  "what  I  have. to  say  will  be  long." 

The  banker  rang;  his  valet  appeared. 

"  Firmin,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  at  home  to  any  one." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Naine,  thrusting  the  bank-notes  into 
her  pocket;  "  now  we  can  talk.  You  asked  for  proofs. 
Here." 

The  strange  being  drew  from  her  breast  a  greasy 
portfolio  swollen  with  letters,  passports,  and  parchments 
of  all  sorts — scraps  of  paper  covered  with  various  hand- 
writings, most  of  them  scrawling  and  illegible — and 
threw  them  all  into  her  lap,  to  use  at  need. 

"You  are  growing  old  now,  M.  Nicois,"  began  she; 
"  but  you  were  young  once,  and  in  youth  the  heart  beats 
spite  of  everything.  A  man  becomes  a  banker,  but  does 
not  becume  all  at  once  a  miser.  At  twenty  you  did  not 
care  so  much  for  heaping  up  gold,  and  you  enjoyed  your 
youth.     Do  you  remember  Louise  Michau  ?" 

The  banker  shivered. 


»jtmsiMi» 


304 


IDOLS. 


"I  see  you  remember,"  resumed  the  Naine;  "she  was 
the  daughter  of  respectable  people,  though  she  had  no 
other  fortune  than  her  two  strong  arms.  Her  dowry 
was  her  beauty;  they  called  her  Louise  the  Blonde." 

"Why  recall  these  things?"  said  Nicois;  "  it  is  of  my 
son  I  want  to  hear." 

"Do  not  interrupt  me,"  said  the  Naine;  "I  speak 
slowly,  and  sometimes  unconnectedly;  it  is  just  as  I  can.' 
My  mind  is  as  dull  as  my  body  is  deformed.  If  I  once 
lose  the  thread  of  my  thoughts,  I  may  never  recover  it." 

The  banker  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  with 
forced  and  painful  resignation,  saying, 

"  I  am  listening." 

"  Louise  was  as  good  as  she  was  pretty,  and  as  confid- 
ing as  good.  She  did  not  know  how  to  lie  herself,  and 
she  never  dreamt  that  any  one  could  deceive  her.  A 
man  told  her  that  he  loved  hf/,  spoke  of  marriage,  and 
of  a  brilliant  future.  Louise  saw  in  such  a  union  the 
happiness  of  her  family,  an  affection  equal  on  both  sides, 
and  all  the  joy  of  an  alliance  contracted  in  the  sight  of 
God  and  men,  and — " 

The  Naine  sprang  to  her  feet,  pointing  her  out- 
stretched arm  at  the  banker,  as  she  continued: 

"  That  man  lied.  A  rich  heiress  crossed  his  path;  he 
forgot  his  first  love,  who  was  poor.  Andr6  Nicois,  you 
were  a  brutal  and  selfish  coward  !" 

The  banker  did  not  resent  the  insult  which  this  mon- 
strous being  fiung  in  his  face.  The  remembrance  of  his 
fault,  which  he  had  avowed  to  the  Abb6  Sulpice,  still 
tormented  him  at  times.  He  bowed  his.  head,  while  the 
woman  went  on,  in  a  voice  husky  with  emotion: 

"I  said  that  the  family  of  this  girl  was  respectable. 
Shame  had  never  come  upon  them.  Louise,  smarting 
under  the  sense  of  desertion,  fled  from  the  home  wherein 
she   had   passed   her  childhood.     One  creature  alone 


I 


led  the  Naine;  "she  was 
aple,  though  she  had  no 
rong  arms.     Her  dowry 
•  Louise  the  Blonde." 
aid  Nicois;  "  it  is  of  my 

id  the  Naine;  "I  speak 
ctedly;  it  is  just  as  I  can.' 
r  is  deformed.  If  I  once 
,  I  may  never  recover  it." 
back  in  his  chair  with 
saying, 

vas  pretty,  and  as  confid- 
w  how  to  lie  herself,  and 
e  could  deceive  her.  A 
,  spoke  of  marriage,  and 
saw  in  such  a  union  the 
ction  equal  on  both  sides, 
lontracted  in  the  sight  of 

feet,  pointing  her   out- 
I  she  continued: 
ress  crossed  his  path;  he 
poor.    Andr6  Nicois,  you 
d!" 
e  insult  which  this  mon- 

The  remembrance  of  his 
:o  the  Abb6  Sulpice,  still 
lowed  his.  head,  while  the 
ky  with  emotion: 
:his  girl  was  respectable. 

them.  Louise,  smarting 
•d  from  the  home  wherein 
>d.     One  creature  alone 


"wnwtnsssKraiaiBJtSKWKt,;; , 


THE  DWARF'S   SECRET. 


305 


knew  Inr  whole  m*  lancholy  story.     Andr6  Nicois  you 
were  her  munl'-rer  !" 

Ti  "  Naine  paused  a  moment,  and  went  on: 

"One  morning  tfie  body  of  Louise  was  found  in  the 
river;  her  dress  had  caught  on  a  lnanrh,  and  her  corpse 
was  floating  among  the  sedges.  If  you  had  seen  her 
then,  livid  and  ghastly,  her  eyes  glassy,  her  lips  purple, 
the  sight  would  have  touched  even  your  brazen  heart. 
But  you  had  other  things  to  think  of.  You  were  married 
to  a  rich  heiress,  and  you  were  beginning  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  your  fortune." 

The  Naine  drew  out  a  package  of  letters,  tied  with  a 
black  ribbon,  from  amongst  the  papers  in  her  lap. 

"  Here  are  your  letters  to  Louise,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
recognize  them  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  banker  in  a  low  voice. 

"Do  what  you  like  with  them  now,"  said  the  Naine; 
"  the  armful  of  proofs  which  I  possess  will  be  of  no  use 
after  this." 

"  But,  my  son  !  my  son  !"  cried  the  banker. 

"  You  did  not  know,  perhaps,"  said  the  Naine,  taking 
no  heed  of  the  banker's  impatience,  "  that  Louise  had  a 
sister.  There  is  a  story  about  the  pretty  daughter  of  a 
merchant,  called  Beauty,  and  a  monster,  who  was  called 
the  Beast.  In  Louise's  home  lived,  or  rather  vegetated,  a 
shameful,  hideous  creature,  a  spectacle  of  ugliness,  a 
curse  and  an  affliction,  at  sight  of  whom  children  cried. 
Her  mother  and  sister  bore  with  her  patiently;  but  no 
one  else  loved  her. 

"  Now,  this  monstrous  being  took  it  into  her  head  that, 
as  men  shunned  her,  she  would  spend  her  time  among 
beasts,  with  whom  she  was  more  on  an  equality.  She 
longed  to  have  a  farm  stocked  with  all  kinds  of  animals, 
and  away  off  on  the  borders  of  a  wood.  As  the  city  cast 
her  off,  she  craved  the  desert 


3o6 


IDOLS. 


II 


"  The  day  when  Louise  had  been  asked  in  marriage 
and  believed  herself  loved  by  a  rich  man,  she  led 
this  monster  into  the  little  garden,  and,  taking  both  her 
ugly  hands  in  hev  own  soft  white  ones,  said, 

"  '  Rose,"  for  the  dwarf  was  named  Rose,  *  I  am  very 
happy.  I  am  going  to  marry  Andr6  Nicois.  Do  not 
shake  your  head,  he  has  given  me  this  engagement  ring. 
Now,  you  have  often  admired  the  farm  of  the  Huchettes. 
Well,  that  will  be  my  wedding  present.  You  will  live 
there  quietly,  well  off,  and  I  hope  as  happy  as  you  can 
be  in  this  world.' 

"  Rose  threw  her  arms  around  her  sister's  neck,  over- 
come with  joy.  How  deeply  was  she  interested  in  this 
marriage;  with  what  eager  curiosity  did  she  question 
Louise  thereupon !  No  doubt  she  was  glad  of  b«ir  sister's 
good  fortune;  but  Rose  had  a  selfish,  evil  side  to  her 
character,  engendered  by  the  contempt,  unkindness,  and 
aversion  of  every  one. 

"  The  monster,  from  whom  her  own  mother  sometimes 
turned  away  in  disgust,  had  henceforth  only  one  thought: 
"  •  My  sister's  marriage  will  make  me  rich  in  my  turn.* 
«  Every  day  she  went  to  the  farm,  and,  standing  outside 
the  paling,  calculated  the  extent  of  the  fields,  counted  on 
her  fingers  the  number  of  trees;  and,  seating  herself  joy- 
ously on  the  ground,  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  blue  slates  of 
the  roof  as  they  glittered  in  ;  .le  sunlight,  repeating  like 
a  clock,  tick-tack,  tick-tack,  the  words  that  expressed  ill 
her  hopes:    " '  The  Huchettes  will  be  mine.' 

"  This  was  a  wild  ambitious  dream  that  haunted  the 
half-demented  brain  of  the  Beast^who  bore  the  name  of 
Christian  and  kept  a  woman's  heart  under  her  hideous 
covering.  She  could  not  sleep  at  night,  and  when  her 
eyes  were  closed  she  saw  a  great  flower-strewn  field, 
with  the  farm  standing  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  great 
meadows   and  running  brooks.      How  she  questioned 


THE  dwarf's  secret. 


307 


)een  asked  in  marriage 
r  a  rich  man,  she  led 
en,  and,  taking  both  her 
e  ones,  said, 

named  Rose,  *  I  am  very 
Andr6  Nicois.  Do  not 
le  this  engagement  ring, 
e  farm  of  the  Huchettes. 
present.  You  will  live 
pe  as  happy  as  you  can 

i  her  sister's  neck,  over- 
as  she  interested  in  this 
riosity  did  she  question 
de  was  glad  of  her  sister's 
L  selfish,  evil  side  to  her 
ontempt,  unkindness,  and 

;r  own  mother  sometimes 
ceforth  only  one  thought: 
lake  me  rich  in  my  turn.' 
irm,  and,  standing  outside 
t  of  the  fields,  counted  on 
;  and,  seating  herself  joy- 
eyes  on  the  blue  slates  of 
le  sunlight,  repeating  like 
:  words  that  expressed  ^11 
will  be  mine.* 
;  dream  that  haunted  the 
ast,^  who  bore  the  name  of 
heart  under  her  hideous 
p  at  night,  and  when  her 
great  flower-strewn  field, 
e  middle  of  it,  and  great 
:s.      How  she  questioned 


Louise:  'What  did  your  lover  say  yesterday?  Is  the 
marriage  day  fixed  ?  Why  not  confide  ail  to  your 
mother,  and  get  your  certificate  of  baptism  ?' 

" '  He  wants  me  to  wait  awhile,  answered  Louise  sub- 
missively, '  so  I  wait.' " 

The  Naine  sought  out  another  paper  from  her  lap,  and 
placed  a  printed  announcement  of  marriage  on  the  desk 
before  the  banker.     Then  she  went  on; 

"  So  Louise  waited  till  Andre  Nicois,  who  had  promised 
to  marry  her  in  the  village  church,  became  the  husband 
of  Mdlle.  Dupernois.  When  she  ceased  to  wait,  she  very 
soon  ceased  to  live.  You  have  the  announcement  of 
your  marriage  there;  here  is  the  report  of  the  policeman, 
testifying  to  having  found  Louise's  body  in  the  river." 

Andr6  Nicois  crumpled  the  two  papers  in  his  hand, 
and  remained  a  moment  with  his  eyes  closed,  overcome 
by  these  memories.  When  he  opened  them,  the  Naine 
was  standing  in  front  of  him,  watching  him  with  the 
ferocity  of  a  wild  beast. 

"  You  are  Rose  !"  exclaimed  he. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "Rose,  the  sister  of  the  dead  girl, 
whose  fate  I  swore  to  avenge,  avenging  myself  at  the 
same  time." 

♦What  had  I  done  to  you?"  said  Nicois;  "I  never 
even  saw  you." 

"  What  had  you  done  to  me  ?"  she  screamed.  "  Do  you 
forget  my  dreams  of  fortune,  my  farm,  the  future  Louise 
meant  to  make  for  me,  if  you  had  kept  your  promise  ?  I 
do  not  pretend  to  be  more  loving  than  I  am.  I  was 
sorry  for  Louise,  because  she  was  always  kind  and  sym- 
pathizing, but  I  was  more  sorry  for  the  fortune  of  which 
you  had  robbed  me.  My  double  sorrow  filled  me  with 
rage  and  hatred  against  you.  My  rage  was  that  of  a 
beast  deprived  of  its  prey.  For  months  I  was  half 
crazed,  going  from  the  Huchettes  to  the  river,  and  from 


3o8 


IDOLS. 


the  river  to  the  cemetery.  Sometimes  I  wept  for  my 
sister,  oftener  yet  I  cast  about  for  means  of  revenge.  I 
thought  of  taking  an  axe  or  a  stick  and  killing  you,  some 
dark  night,  at  the  street  corner.  But  I  remembered  that 
your  sufferings  then  would  be  too  short,  and  I  sought 
another  means.  Dying  would  be  only  one  struggle,  a 
little  blood  spilt,  and  that's  all.  Louise  had  only  suffered 
for  a  short  time,  but  I  was  never,  never  to  realize  my 
hopes-  Beings  like  me,  deformed  in  mind  and  body,  are 
slow  and  sluggish.  At  last,  one  day  I  heard  you  re- 
quired a  nurse.  I  knew  you  had  a  child.  My  vengeance 
was  at  hand.  That  day  I  uttered  shrieks  of  joy  and 
danced  like  a  madwoman.  At  last  I  could  punish  you; 
at  last  avenge  my  sister  on  your  wife  and  child." 
^  "I  see  it  all!  I  see  it  all!"  cried  the  banker. 

"  The  Beast  became  as  cunning  as  a  fox.     She  gained 
every  approach  to  your  house.     She  flattered  the  ser- 
vants,  and  made  them   believe  she    could    tell    their 
fortunes  from  their  palms.     She  made  friends  with  the 
dog  by  bringing  bones  to  his  kennel.     She  did   not 
hurry.     Her  work  was  like  that  of  the  snail.     She  pro- 
ceeded slowly  but  surely.      You   remember  going  to 
Austria?" 
"  I  remember.    Oh!   I  remember,"  said  the  banker. 
«  Your  family  was  in  Paris  at  the  time.    I  watched  your 
house,  followed  your  child,  spied  upon  the  servants,  and 
one  day,  taking  advantage  of  a  crowd  of  children  who 
had  collected  to  see  some  show  in  the  Champs  Elys6es, 
I  carried  off  your  son  through  the  crowd,  took  him  in 
my  arms  and  ran.     He  laughed  at  first,  thinking  I  was 
playing.     When  he  began  to  cry,  I  brought  him  to  my 
garret,  took  off  his  rich  clothes,  dressed  him  in  rags, 
and  started  for  the  country. 

"  I  ran,  ran,  breathless  and  panting.    The  child,  tired 
of  crying,  had  fallen  asleep.    When  he  woke,  we  were 


THE  DWARF  S  SECRET. 


309 


}metimes  I  wept  for  my 
For  means  of  revenge.     I 
tick  and  killing  you,  some 
But  I  remembered  that 
s  too  short,  and  I  sought 
be  only  one  struggle,  a 
Louise  had  only  suffered 
;ver,  never  to  realize  my 
led  in  mind  and  body,  are 
one  day  I  heard  you  re- 
id  a  child.     My  vengeance 
tered  shrieks  of  joy  and 
last  I  could  punish  you; 
ir  wife  and  child." 
ied  the  banker, 
ling  as  a  fox.     She  gained 
e.     She  flattered  the  ser- 
ve she    could    tell    their 
(he  made  friends  with  the 
is  kennel.     She  did   not 
at  of  the  snail.     She  pro- 
You   remember  going  to 

nber,"  said  the  banker. 
t  the  time.  I  watched  your 
led  upon  the  servants,  and 
a  crowd  of  children  who 
»w  in  the  Champs  Elys6es, 
h  the  crowd,  took  him  in 
ed  at  first,  thinking  t  was 
cry,  I  brought  him  to  my 
thes,  dressed  him  in  rags, 

panting.    The  child,  tired 
When  he  woke,  we  were 


far  from  the  city.  I  left  him  with  some  peasants,  and 
went  home.  They  thought  I  had  been  taking  a  long 
walk,  and  did  not  question  me  as  to  my  absence.  Your 
wife,  half  Ciazed  with  sorrow,  wrote  to  you,  and  you 
came  back.  You  put  up  placards,  offering  a  reward  of 
25,000  francs  for  the  recovery  of  your  son.  I  hesitated. 
With  that  amount  I  could  purchase  the  Huchettes.  But 
on  reflection  I  saw  that  the  event  was  too  recent.  Sus- 
picion would  have  turned  upon  me,  and  before  pay- 
ing me  the  price  I  should  have  been  questioned.  I 
would  have  got  months  or  years  in  prison  for  the  return 
of  your  son.  Besides,  I  not  only  wanted  to  enrich  my- 
self, but  to  revenge  my  sister.  So  Marc  never  returned 
to  you.  I  often  wondered  what  I  should  do  with  him. 
It  was  impossible  to  leave  him  long  where  he  was.  But 
while  I  was  in  this  state  of  uncertainty,  an  incident  de- 
cided both  our  lives.  A  company  of  mountebanks  passed 
through  the  country  at  the  time  of  the  Patronal  Feast. 
They  had  a  two-headed  woman,  the  Northern  Hercules, 
and  a  (Ivj- footed  calf.  Attracted  by  the  spectacle,  I 
mingled  with  the  crowd  outside  the  door. 

"'Come  in  gratis,'  said  the  two-headed  woman; 
*  among  professional  people — ' 

"  I  went  in,  and  as  the  spectacle  was  about  ending,  the 
clown  made  a  sign  to  me  from  behind  the  curtain  of  the 
booth: 

" '  The  manager  wants  to  speak  to  you,'  said  he. 

"•What  for?*  said  I.  - 

" '  He  wants  you  to  make  an  engagement  with  him.' 

"  I  did  not  quite  understand  what  he  meant,  but  I 
followed  the  clown. 

"  The  manager,  a  big,  red-faced,  coarse-looking  man, 
looked  at  me  and  laughed,  showing  every  tooth  in  his 
head. 

" '  Upon  my  word/  said  he, '  I  haven't  one  like  you  in 


310 


IDOLS. 


my  whole  collection.  What  will  you  take  by  the  year 
to  exhibit  yourself  at  fairs  ?  Your  picture  will  be  on  the 
placards,  and  you  will  rank  with  foreign  artists.* 

"  •  What  will  I  take  ? '  stammered  I. 

"  *  Yes.  A  hundred  francs  a  year,'  continued  Guigolfo. 
'  costume  supplied,  expenses  paid,  food  fit  for  a  princess, 
and  brandy  at  discretion.' 

" '  That  will  answer,'  said  I,  enchanted  with  the  pros- 
pect.    '  But  the  child  ?  ' 

"  *  You  have  a  child  ? '  he  asked. 

" '  There  is  one  that  must  go  with  me,'  said  I. 

"'What  age?' 

" '  Three  years.' 

♦• '  Pretty,  easy  to  train  ?  * 

*' '  Fair,  rosy,  and  slender.' 

"  ♦  Twenty  francs  a  year  for  the  child,  and  we  will  sign 
an  agreement  for  four  years.' 

" '  When  do  you  leave  ? ' 

"'To-night' 

" '  Where  will  you  be  to-morrow?' 

"'AtMelun.' 

"'Wait  for  me  there,  and  I  will  bring  the  child.' 

"  I  shook  hands  upon  it  with  Guigolfo  and  ran  home. 
At  dawn  I  set  out;  a  neighbor  wrote  a  line  for  me  to 
my  parents,  telling  them  I  was  going,  but  not  saying 
where.  At  the  Mayor's  office  I  asked  in  your  name 
for  Marc's  certificate  of  baptism.  Such  documents  are 
free  to  the  public.  I  got  it  without  any  diflSculty.  That 
evening  I  set  out  f  r  Melun,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  came  up  with  the  showman's  wagons.  The  barking 
of  dogs,  squealing  of  monkeys,  and  crying  of  an  infant 
greeted  me.  The  manager  opened  the  wagon -door  and 
let  me  in.  The  child  and  myself  were  given  a  mattress, 
and  I  slept  till  morning.  The  two-headed  woman  un- 
dressed the  child,  felt  his  limbs  to  see  if  they  were 


wmtm 


THE  dwarf's  secret. 


3»» 


I  you  take  by  the  year 
nr  picture  will  be  on  the 
foreign  artists.' 
■ed  I. 

;ar,'  continued  Guigolfo. 
1,  food  fit  for  a  princess, 

nchanted  with  the  pros- 

1. 

«rith  me,'  said  I. 


e  child,  and  we  will  sign 


>w?' 

ill  bring  the  child.' 
Guigolfo  and  ran  home. 
'  wrote  a  line  for  me  to 
i  going,  but  not  saying 

I  asked  in  your  name 
1.  Such  documents  are 
lOut  any  difficulty.  That 
nd  in  the  middle  of  the 
I's  wagons.  The  barking 
and  crying  of  an  infant 
ned  the  wagon -door  and 
If  were  given  a  mattress, 

two-headed  woman  un- 
ibs  to  see  if  they  were 


supple,  and  throwing  him  like  a  ball  to  the  Northern 
Hercules,  said, 

" '  Good  for  training! ' 

"  I  signed  the  agreement  for  both  of  us  with  the  man- 
ager." 

"Wretch!  wretch,"  cried  Andr6  Nicois.    . 

"  At  length  I  was  avenged,"  said  she;  "  every  day  my 
hatred  was  being  gratified.  I  saw  that  child  upon  whom 
you  had  lavished  every  care  and  tenderness  beaten  and 
starved.  He  seemed  to  regard  me  with  the  greatest 
horror.  Sometimes  he  stretched  out  his  little  arms,  cry- 
ing, '  Mamma!  mamma! '  and  I  struck  him,  saying, 

" '  I  am  your  mother.' 

"  But  he  turned  from  me  in  horror,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands." 

The  Naine  paused  a  moment  to  enjoy  the  banker's 
horror  and  despair,  then  went  on: 

"  The  physical  sufferings  of  the  child  were  nothing  to 
the  moral  harm  done  him.  When  they  bruised  his  body 
they  poisoned  his  mind,  filling  it  with  precocious  wicked- 
ness. His  rosy  lips  repeated  blasphemies,  and  his 
childish  speech  was  a  tissue  of  horrors.  One  day  I  had 
some  thoughts  of  sending  him  back  to  you.  The 
Northern  Hercules  asked  me  to  be  his  wife.  It  was  a 
temptation.  I  might  have  had  some  taste  of  happiness. 
But  the  Hercules  would  not  have  your  son.  Common- 
sense,  however,  forbade  me  to  accept  this  man,  who 
would  no  doubt  have  soon  begun  to  treat  me  cruelly. 
The  end  oi  our  agreement  came.  I  had  saved.  I  had 
learned  many  lucrative  trades  in  my  travels.  I  re- 
fused to  remain  in  the  troupe.  I  went  to  Paris,  where  I 
was  to  find  the  completion  of  my  revenge.  I  discovered 
your  address.  I  found  that  the  misery  of  having  lost 
your  child  had  estranged  you  from  your  wife.  She 
no  longer  loved  you;  your  affection  for  her  was  more 


111 


I 


312 


IDOLS. 


in  appearance  than  in  reality:  you  had  only  one  idol, 
gold;  one  desire,  gold;  one  love,  gold — always  gold. 

"  Men  spoke  of  your  operations  at  the  Bourse,  and 
envied  your  happiness.  I  knew  better,  and  I  never 
envied  you.  I  placed  Marc  at  a  modest  boarding-school, 
commanding  him  to  be  silent  as  to  the  past.  Fear  or 
pride  made  him  discreet,  and,  more  wonderful  still,  he 
studied.  His  progress  was  rapid.  I  paid  his  expenses, 
at  first  out  of  my  savings,  then  with  my  wages." 

"  You  repented  then  ?"  said  the  banker. 

"  I  repent  ?  You  shall  see.  I  left  the  necessary 
money  with  the  schooliiiaster  for  Marc,  and  disappeared. 
I  would  have  wished  him  to  forget  me;  it  would  have 
better  suited  my  plans.  At  eighteen  he  had  a  depraved, 
perverse,  thoroughly  evil  nature.  As  a  child  he  had  not 
been  innocent;  as  a  man  he  was  utterly  had.  At  the 
age  when  most  young  men  know  little  of  life  he  was 
hardened  in  evil.  He  was  hypocrite  enough  to  disguise 
his  wickedness,  and  self-controlled  enough  to  await  the 
time  for  its  full  enjoyment.  He  played  a  double  role  in 
the  world:  an  honest  man  by  day,  he  was  a  thief  by 
night.  For  the  rest,  being  a  pretty,  well-dressed  boy, 
paying  large  sums  to  his  tailor,  perfuming  his  hair,  and 
using  rice-powder  like  a  woman,  with  manners  by  turns 
insolent  or  fawning^  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  situa- 
tion in  an  honorable  house." 

"Ah!"  said  the  banker  with  a  sort  of  relief. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Rue  Git-le-Cceur?"  said  the  Naine. 

"  I  believe  it  is  somewhere  near  the  Prefecture,"  said 
the  banker  mechanically. 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  woman.  "  I  do  not  think  you  make 
many  purchases  there;  for  you  oftener  buy  diamonds 
from  Falize  than  old  iron  from  Methusalem.  However,  if 
you  had  done  him  the  honor  of  going  into  his  shop,  you 
would  have  found  me   there,  scrubbing  the  floors  or 


THE   DWARFS  SECRET. 


313 


:  you  had  only  one  idol, 
re,  gold — always  gold, 
tions  at  the  Bourse,  and 
lew  better,  and  I  never 
1  modest  boarding-school, 
t  as  to  the  past.  Fear  or 
,  more  wonderful  still,  he 
f)id.     I  paid  his  expenses, 

with  my  wages." 
the  banker. 

:.  I  left  the  necessary 
or  Marc,  and  disappeared, 
forget  me;  it  would  have 
fhteen  he  had  a  depraved, 
'e.  As  a  child  he  had  not 
ras  utterly  bad.  At  the 
now  little  of  life  he  was 
ocrite  enough  to  disguise 
tiled  enough  to  await  the 
[e  played  a  double  role  in 
f  day,  he  was  a  thief  by 

pretty,  well-dressed  boy, 
',  perfuming  his  hair,  and 
m,  with  manners  by  turns 
ded  in  obtaining  a  situa- 

i  sort  of  relief. 
le-CcEur?"  said  the  Naine. 
lear  the  Prefecture,"  said 

"  I  do  not  think  you  make 
>u  oftener  buy  diamonds 
Methusalem.  However,  if 
f  going  into  his  shop,  you 

scrubbing  the  floors  or 


taking  the  markings  from  linen  when  I  was  not  cooking. 
Methusalem  is  a  jack-of-all-trades.  He  makes  money 
out  of  everything — thefts,  frauds,  ial>/c  d'hdte,  and  lodg- 
ing-rooms. I  saw  your  little  Marc,  then  a  fine  youth 
of  eighteen,  come  in  one  day  to  this  table.  He  was  ap- 
parently the  intimate  associate  of  a  thief." 

"  My  God!  my  God!"  cried  the  banker,  burying  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"  Up  to  this  time,  bad  as  he  was,  he  had  committed  no 
actual  crime.  He  had  gone  through  the  police  courts, 
but  had  not  yet  come  to  the  convict-prison.  He,  how- 
ever, promised  so  well  in  the  gang  he  had  now  joined 
that  Jean  Machd  gave  him  the  name  of  Fleur  d'Echa- 
faud,  which  he  has  ever  since  kept." 

"lam  going  mad!"  said  the  banker,  "I  am  going 
mad!"     - 

"  Not  yet,  Andr6  Nicois,"  said  the  Naine.  "  You  had  a 
friend,  a  good  friend,  M.  Pomereul." 

"  Yes,  but  I  lost  him  by  a  cruel  death,"  said  he. 

"  His  son  Xavier  was  accused  of  the  crime,  but  was 
since  released.  Do  you  remember  that  the  police,  on 
making  a  report  of  the  state  of  the  room  on  the  morn- 
ing after  the  murder,  took  from  the  fingers  of  Lipp- 
Lapp,  the  chimpanzee,  a  tuft  of  red  hair  ?" 

*'  Well  ?"  gasped  the  banker. 

"  They  concluded  then,  and  later  on  at  the  trial,  that 
the  murderer,  Jean  Machd,  had  an  accomplice.  But  Jean 
MachA  would  not  betray  the  man  who  had  assisted  him. 
Till  yesterday  the  name  of  that  accomplice  was  un- 
known." 

"  And  now — now  ?" 

"M.  Xavier,  once  at  liberty,  wanted  to  forget  all 
about  >t  But  there  was  one  that  did  not  forget.  Lipp- 
Lapp,  who  was  wounded  by  Machii's  accomplice,  remem- 
bered His  face." 


fiS^^^sidiimf^Mi&mmiim^m 


i>4 


IDOJ.S. 


Andre  Nicois  seemed  unable  longer  to  follow  the 
Naine:  his  face  grew  purple;  his  eyes  protruded. 
Hasten,  Naine,  or  you  will  be  powerless  to  touch  him 
further.  She  threw  every  word  in  his  face  like  so  many 
blows. 

"Marc  was  Antoine  Pomereul's  secretary,  and  the 
information  given  by  him  first  induced  Machfl,  alias 
Rat-de-Cave,  to  think  of  robbing  the  banker's  safe.  Sur- 
prised by  the  master  and  attacked  by  the  beast,  they 
killed  the  one  and  left  the  other  for  dead.  No  one  sus- 
pected Marc.  I  knew,  but  I  bided  my  time.  I  feared 
that  I  might  not  be  able  to  prove  my  charge.  The 
Commune  came,  and  Marc  took  a  bloody  part  in  it  I 
might  have  had  him  shot,  but  that  seemed  too  easy  a 
death  Yesterday  Marc  was  passing  along  the  Chauss^e 
d'Antin,  disguised  so  that  no  one  could  recognize  him 
except  Lipp-Lapp.  With  his  wonderful  instinct,  the 
beast  knew  him,  leaped  into  the  street,  pursued  and 
caught  him.  M.  Xavier  also  recognized  him,  and  he 
was  arrested  for  complicity  in  the  robbery  and  murder 
of  Antoine  Pomereul." 

The  banker  fell  out  of  his  chair,  stricken  with  apo- 
plexy. 

And  the  Naine  ran  downstairs,  crying  to  the  con- 
cierge, 

"  A  doctor,  quick  !  a  doctor!     Your  master  is  dying." 

So  saying,  she  disappeared  down  a  neighboring  alley- 
way, like  a  phantom  vanishing  i.ito  the  night. 


ms.  <,iii«MmmiimmmmMa»i6M 


TUB. BROKEN   IDOL. 


$n 


lie  longer  to  follow  the 
le;  his  eyes  protruded. 
•  powerless  to  touch  him 
d  in  his  face  like  so  many 

real's  secretary,  and  the 
rst  induced  Machd,  alias 
ig  the  banker's  safe.  Sur- 
acked  by  the  beast,  they 
er  for  dead.  No  one  sus- 
bided  my  time.  I  feared 
prove  my  charge.  The 
ok  a  bloody  part  in  it  I 
[t  that  seemed  too  easy  a 
assing  along  the  Chauss^e 
one  could  recognize  him 
)  wonderful  instinct,  the 
the  street,  pursued  and 
recognized  him,  and  he 
1  the  robbery  and  murder 

chair,  stricken  with  apo- 

stairs,  crying  to  the  ton- 

!  Your  master  is  dying." 
lown  a  neighboring  alley* 
;  i.ito  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
The  Broken  Idol. 

The  smoking*room  opening  from  Benedict  Fougerais' 
studio  presented  a  most  animated  appearance.  A  dozen 
or  so  young  men  had  just  risen  from  an  abundant  break- 
fast, the  champagne  whereof  hud  given  them  a  twofold 
animation.  They  were  in  fact  celebrating  the  sending 
a  model  to  the  government.  It  was  the  model  of  the 
fountain  ordered  from  the  sculptor,  representing  Hylas 
and  the  Nymphs. 

If  the  enthusiasm  of  Benedict's  friends  was  somewhat 
exaggerated,  it  must  be  admitted  that  his  work  was 
worthy  of  all  praise.  From  where  the  young  men  sat 
they  could  see,  through  the  heavily  curtained  arch  of  the 
smoking-room,  the  group  chiselled  from  a  block  of  white 
Carrara  marble,  resting  against  a  background  of  crim- 
son velvet. 

It  was  a  classical  work — a  perfect  representation  of 
that  severity  of  outline  made  modern  by  the  perfection 
of  form,  of  which  Coysevox  dreamed  and  Clodion  re- 
vealed the  secret  Certainly  it  required  little  short  of 
the  highest  genius  to  create  that  polished  yet  living  group, 
breathing  youth,  glowing  youth.  Its  author  might 
well  exclaim, 

"  My  place  is  won." 

Yes,  won  among  those  who  crave  success  from  wher- 
ever it  comes.  But  changed  as  Benedict  was,  he  could 
not  look  on  his  work  without  remorse.  Near  the  group 
of  Hylas  was  a  statue  of  clay,  almost  ready  to  fall  into 


3i6 


lUOLS. 


dust.  Unfinished  and  covered  with  a  veil  of  gray  linen, 
it  still  attracted  the  gaze  of  the  artist.  It  was  a  plan  of 
a  St.  Cecilia  begun  from  memory, 

"See,  old  fellow,"  said  one  of  his  companions,  "you 
did  well  after  all  to  take  our  advice.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  that  famous  supper  at  which  we  converted  you  to 
mythology,  you  would  have  gone  back  to  the  Middle 
Ages,  as  sure  as  you  live.  You  would  have  gone  on  dream- 
ing, when  there  is  scarcely  one  of  the  younger  sculptors 
who  can  rival  you.  Dubois  is  spoiled  by  affectation, 
Carpaux  is  too  impetuous.  In  a  couple  of  years  you 
will  be  at  the  head  of  the  new  school." 

"What  success  you  will  have  at  the  Exposition!"  said 
another.  "  You  remember  how  they  gave  the  medal  to 
Hiolle  for  his  cU  bsical  figure  of  Orion  ?  Why,  you  are 
sure  of  it." 

"  I  have  just  begun  my  series  of  articles  on  the  Salon 
of  1873,"  said  an  art-critic,  "and  I  will  boldly  proclaim 
'  Hylas  and  the  Nymphs  '  the  work  of  the  year.  In  all 
my  visits  to  the  studios  of  Paris  I  have  seen  nothing  to 
approach  this  work." 

"  It  means  fame,  Benedict,"  said  the  poet  Gildas. 

"And  happiness,"  added  a  novelist. 
•  To  your  health,  Benedict!  to  Hylas!  to  the  medal!" 

"Tha.iks,  thanks,  my  friends!"  said  Benedict,  pleased 
at  their  enthusiasm,  "  you  give  me  confidence.  One 
always  distrusts  himself  on  the  eve  of  battle.  While  we 
are  at  work  the  fever  of  production  sustains  us;  when  we 
have  finished  we  begin  to  judge  what  is  done." 

"  It  will  be  the  greatest  success  in  ten  years,"  cried  a 
painter. 

"  It  will  be  called  the  triumph  of  Benedict." 

"  It  should  be  crowned,"  said  Gildas. 

"Yes,  it  should  be  crowned,"  cried  the  others,  and  two 
of  the  young  enthusiasts  leaped  out  of  the  window  and 


with  a  veil  of  gray  linen, 

!  artist.    It  was  a  plan  of 

ry. 

of  his  companions,  "  you 

vice.     If  it  had  not  been 

ich  we  converted  you  to 

{one  back  to  the  Middle 

ould  have  gone  on  dream- 

of  the  younger  sculptors 

s  spoiled  by  affectation, 

[n   a  couple  of  years  you 

chool." 

;at  the  Exposition!"  said 

r  they  gave  the  medal  to 

if  Orion  ?    Why,  you  are 

s  of  articles  on  the  Salon 
d  I  will  boldly  proclaim 
work  of  the  year.  In  all 
is  I  have  seen  nothing  to 

said  the  poet  Gildas. 

ovelist. 

to  Hylas!  to  the  medal!" 

.!"  said  Benedict,  pleased 

Ive  me  confidence.    One 

!  eve  of  battle.     While  we 

:tion  sustains  us;  when  we 

e  what  is  done." 

ess  in  ten  years,"  cried  a 

h  of  Benedict." 

1  Gildas. 

'  cried  the  others,  and  two 

ed  out  of  the  window  aad 


THK   llUOKliN  IDOL. 


317 


brought  in  branches,  which  they  deposited  in  the  arms 
of  the  nymphs. 

A  general  hurrah  and  another  bumper  of  champagne 
saluted  this  offering.  But  whilst  Benedict  strove  to  erter 
into  the  mood  of  his  companions,  there  was  a  shadow  on 
his  brow.  He  blushed  at  it;  it  irritated  him,  and  he 
strove  to  shake  off  by  boisterous  mirth  this  reflection  of 
the  grief  which  still  gnawed  at  his  heart;  but  he  could 
not.  He  believed  his  success  certain.  His  friends  did 
not  flatter  him  in  predicting  it.  But  when  he  looked  at 
the  nymphs,  the  smile  upon  their  lips  seemed  to  mock 
the  pain  at  his  heart. 

"Benedict,"  said  a  crayon  artist,  "will  you  come  to 
the  prison  to-morrow  ?" 

"What  for?"  said  he.   "I  have  seen  the  cell  of  Marie 
Antoinette  and  the  chapel." 
"  Oh,  it  is  only  to  sge  a  prisoner." 
"Who?" 

"  Why,  that  double-dyed  villain,  Marc  Maudult,  the 
accomplice  of  Jean  Machfl,  who  had  the  honesty  to  con- 
fess his  crime  before  he  died." 

"  And  to  save  that  unfortunate  Xavier  Pomereul,"  said 
another. 

"An  illustrated  journal,"  said  the  artist, "  wants  the 
portrait  of  this  charming  youth,  who  belonged  to  the 
Black  Cap  gang.  By  my  word,  I  hobnobbed  with  him 
one  night  at  the  Bouflfes,  when  I  was  a  little  excited! 
But  what,  in  heaven's  name,  are  we  coming  to,  if  the  most 
sedate-looking  government  clerks  and  the  most  prepos- 
sessing secretaries  are  ready  to  steal  into  our  confidence 
and  obtain  at  once  our  handkerchief,  our  friendship,  and 
our  watch  ?  They  say  he  has  not  lost  a  whit  of  his  cool- 
ness in  prison.     He  is  a  curiosity." 

"I  say,  Paul,"  said   a  novelist,   "if  Benedict  doesn't 


I 


SIS 


IDOLS. 


g„,l«  me  go  In  hi.  pl«:..    I  »an.  a  ch.r««r  tor  my 

%;TeL'r;tXpr/rwV .» compue 

Marc  M.»duif»  no..,  and  docum.ni.  and  n>.ke  a  large 
To"  m.  ou.  of  then,,  entitled  •  Memo  r,o.  F..ur  d  Echa- 
taud  •    You  will  sell  fifty  tl-ousand  copies,  I  »»«";       „ 
'■Beside.,  you  will  save  your  Imaginatto.  «  much, 
«,id  Gildas;  "  the  drama  is  complete. 

::5:u'V^m's"  .aid  .h.  po.t,"that  rieurd'Echa. 
faud  wU.4"";  excllent  family.    Stole.,  by  a  «r.  o 
laua  oeion  -  „„  for  hi.  .ister's  death,  the 

of  a  mountebank,  o.-  something  of  that  sort     Over  an 
above  this  education  on  the  t.ght-rope   she  had  h.m 
taught  Latin  and  Greek  to  disgu.se  ^im  the  more^     i 
this  new  skin  he  came  out  as  you  know,  and  will  end  as 
'you  "n  foresee.    It  seems  that  thismonster  of  awoman 
revealed  the  whole  thing  to  his  parents.  ,, 

"That explains  Fleur  d'Echafaud's  attempt  toescape 
:a.T.^XL    "  His  family  fur;.ished  the  means,  and 

had  not  slipped  in  climbing  a  wall,  he  would  have  been 
°VL"ee  it  is  as  I  said,  a  perfect  drama,"  said 

""  "tmust  have  a  talk  with  my  P"^^;f -;^t''^^^^^^ 
the  author;  "in  a  fortnight  it  would  bring  in  twenty 

thousand  francs."  asked  the  crayon  artist. 

"  Will  you  come,  Benedict  r  asKca  mc  v.»j 
"  No.  no,"  said  he,  shuddering. 

Gildks  tU  an  opportunity  *« -^!f P^  5° '»^^^^^^^^^^^^  . 
"  Never  speak  of  the  Pomereul  family  before  Benedict. 
The  shadoof  sadness  on  Benedict's  face  was  deepe 

than  before. 


ma 


lilHWmiMii 


THE   HKOKEN    IDOL. 


3>9 


want  a  character  for  my 
,y  made." 

;  way  will  be  to  compile 
ments  and  make  a  large 
Memoirs  of  Fleurd'Echa- 
and  copies,  I  wager." 
imagination  so  much," 
pletc." 

oet,  "  that  Fleur  d'Echa- 
mily.  Stolen  by  a  sort  of 
or  his  sister's  death,  the 
re  in  a  circus  or  the  booth 
J  of  that  sort.  Over  and 
tight-rope  she  had  him 
guise  him  the  more.  In 
ou  know,  and  will  end  as 
t  this  monster  of  a  woman 
5  parents." 

afaud's  attempt  to  escape, 
furv.ished  the  means,  and 
I  did  the  rest;  if  his  foot 
wall,  he  would  have  been 

lid,  a  perfect  drama,"  said 

ly  publisher  about  it,"  said 
it  would  bring  in  twenty 

?"  asked  the  crayon  artist. 

ing. 

f  to  whisper  to  the  artist: 
eul  family  before  Benedict." 
Benedict's  face  was  deeper 


The  young  man,  however,  feeling  that  he  was  but  a 
sorry  host,  made  an  effort,  and  rising,  filled  the  glasses  of 
pink  crystal  with  champagne,  saying  cheerily, 

"  Keep  me  company,  boys.     Let  us  drink  once  more 
to  the  future,  to  joy,  fame,  happiness,  to  all  that  can 
bring  us  forgetfulness,  to  all  that  will  give  us  new  life." 
Benedict  drained  the  glass,  at  the  very  moment  that  a 
young  man,  coming  to  the  door,  stopped  in  surprise  up- 
on the  threshold.     But  the  sculptor  recognized  him,  and 
rushed  forward  eagerly  seizing,  him  by  both  hands. 
"Xavier,  old  fellow!"  he  said  cordially. 
Most  of  the  company  knew  Pomereul,  and  greeted  him 
warmly.     They  had  often  met  him  in  the  resorts  most 
frequented  by  men  of  fashion,  the  theatre,  club,  race- 
course.     A  series   of   questions   followed  to  which   he 
found  some  difficulty  in  replying  all  at  once:  "  What  has 
become  of  you  ?"  "  We  never  see  you  anywhere."  "  Are 
you  going  to  run  again  ?"  •  "  Have  you  been  travelling  ?" 
"  Good  heavens  !"  cried  Xavier,  "  one  at  a  time.    My 
story  will  be  a  surprise  to  you." 

"  All  the  better,"  said  the  journalist;  "  I  am  never  sur- 
prised,  only  animated.     You  will  give  me  »»  new  vein." 
"  In  the  first  place,  my  friends,"  said  Xavier,  "  I  paid 
my  debts." 

"  Paid  your  debts  ?"  said  a  painter.  "  Can  you  show 
your  receipts  ? 

"I  understand,"  said  the  crayon  artist;  "he  payed  his 
creditors  to  establish  a  baiie  of  confidence  for  future 
operations." 

"No,  you  are  out  there,"  said  Xavier,   shaking  his 
head. 
"  Then  explain  yourself." 

"I  paid  my  debts,"  said  Xavier,  "that  I  might  owe 
nothing  to  the  honest  people  who  had  trusted  me.  And 
what  is  still  more  astonishing  is  that  after  paying  for 


320 


IDOLS. 


everything,  furniture,  horses,  carriages,  jewelry,  I  still 
had  thirty  thousand  francs."  ^^ 

"  But  your  father  left  a  great  deal  of  money. 

"  I  include  my  share  of  what  he  left,"  said  Xavicr.  "  I 
can  tell  you,  money  goes  quick  in  that  little  flower- 
strewn  path  called  Parisian  life.  We  buy  at  exorbitant 
prices,  we  throw  money  about  like  princes,  wc  go  mto 
all  kinds  of  costly  eccentricities,  and  then  some  mommg 
comes  the  crash,  and  the  end  of  it  is  we  ruin  ourselves 
or  our  tradespeople.  I  rather  preferred  ruining  my- 
self-" ,.  u  A 

"  But  what    did    you    do  with  the  thirty  thousand 

francs  ?"  said  one.  ,     .  v    • 

"  What  would  you  have  done  with  it  ?"  asked  Xavier 

of  the  author.  j         *  •* 

"  I  should  have  taken  the  train  to  Monaco,  and  spent  it 

there  in  trying  to  make  more." 
"  And  you  ?"  to  the  crayon  artist. 
"  I  should  have  gone  back  for  six  months  to  the  old 

life." 

"But  after  that?" 

"Afte?    that    I   would   have    become    a    Chasseur 

d'Afrique." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  of  the  same  mind  as  either  of  you,^ 
said  Xav'ier.   "  I  made  up  my  mind  to  live  on  my  income." 

"  Fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year  ?    Why,  never  !" 

"  But  I  could  earn  something  besides." 

"  How  ?    You  can  do  nothing,  Xavier." 

"  I  could  do  nothing;  I  learned." 

"What?" 

"  Book-keeping,  and  became  cashier  of  our  factory. 

"  That's  a  good  joke,"  cried  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  joking?"  said  Xavier  to  Bene 

diet. 

"  No,"  said  Benedict,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion. 


THE  BROKEN  IDOL. 


321 


carriages,  jewelry,  I  still 

t  deal  of  money." 
:  he  left,"  said  Xavicr.  "  I 
ick  in  that  little  flower- 
e.  We  buy  at  exorbitant 
t  like  princes,  wc  go  into 
s,  and  then  some  morning 
if  it  is  we  ruin  ourselves 
er  preferred  ruining  my- 

with  the  thirty  thousand 

le  with  it  ?"  asked  Xavier 

ain  to  Monaco,  and  spent  it 

artist. 

.  for  six  months  to  the  old 

ive    become    a    Chasseur 

e  mind  as  either  of  you," 
nind  to  live  on  my  income." 
year  ?    Why,  never !" 
ng  besides." 
ng,  Xavier." 
rned." 

le  cashier  of  our  factory." 

d  a  chorus  of  voices. 

ng  ?"  said  Xavier  to  Bene- 

'oice  of  deep  emotion. 


"Now  see,"  said  Xavier,  his  good-humored  voice 
tinged  with  bitterness,  "  we  generally  say  to  ourselves 
and  others,  when  we  are  throwing  money  right  and  left, 
that  'we  are  leading  a  jolly  life.'  But  it  is  false.  We  do 
not  get  the  worth  of  our  money.  We  eat  highly  spiced 
food  and  drink  wines  that  ruin  our  digestion.  The 
doctors  live  at  our  expense.  Our  horses  do  not  always 
come  in  first  on  the  turf.  The  cards  deceive  us.  We 
pass  our  nights  talking  nonsense  or  dealing  out  bits  of 
pasteboard.  The  jewellers  laugh  at  us.  At  thirty  we 
have  no  fortune,  no  horses,  no  illusions.  One  chance 
remains  to  ua.  Worn  out  and  Mas/,  we  marry  some 
young  girl  who  does  not  understand  us,  and  would 
despise  us  if  she  could  know  our  past  life.  Too  often 
even  this  is  only  a  means  of  retrieving  our  fortunes,  tliat 
we  may  pursue  the  same  career.  In  a  few  months  we 
begin  to  neglect  our  wife,  and  there  is  one  more  unhappy 
woman  added  to  the  long  list  For  my  part,  I  followed 
the  example  of  those  savages  in  some  part  of  Oceanica. 
They  have  idols  to  whom  no  sacrifice  is  too  costly. 
They  load  them  with  gifts,  sending  up  ardent  prayers  all 
the  while;  but  if  it  happens  that  the  idols  do  not  grant 
the  desires  of  their  worshippers,  if  they  receive  their 
offerings  without  repaying  them  in  pleasure,  martial 
glory,  or  happiness,  the  savages  snatch,  them  from  the 
altar,  spit  upon  them,  insult  them,  trample  them  under 
foot,  and  end  by  setting  fire  to  them  or  throwing  them 
into  the  sea.  I  have  done  likewise.  My  idols  deceived 
me.    I  laughed  them  to  scorn  and  broke  them." 

"  And  are  you  happy  now  ?"  said  Benedict. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Xavier.  "  I  have  sleep,  health,  good 
temper.  I  take  an  interest  in  a  hundred  things  that  I 
never  knew  the  value  of  before.  I  was  a  worthless 
spendthrift,  now  I  am  good  for  something." 

"But  who  worked  this  mfracle?" 


322 


IDOLS. 


"  My  brother  first,"  said  Xavier  gravely, « then  a  young 

girl." 
^  "  A  young  girl  ?" 

"  Yes;  I  did  not  tell  you  alL    I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"To  an  heiress?"  . 

"  No,  to  a  poor  orphan.    I  have  nothing,  yet  she  is 

satisfied." 
"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  A  very  obscure  one— Louise  Dubois.    You  do  not 

know  her.     Her  father,  an  honest  and  honorable  man, 

was  our  cashier  for  forty  years." 

Benedict  wrung  his  friend's  hand. 

The  others,  seeing  that  the  breakfast  was  going  to  end 

in  a  serious  conversation,  took  their  leave,  and  Benedict, 

with  beating  heart,  found  himself  alone  with  Xavier 

The  young  men  had  not  seen  each  other  for  two  years 

Benedict  had  fought  all  during  the  war.     When  peaf« 

was  concluded,  and  Jean  Machii's  confession  had  exon 

erated  Xavier,  Sabine  besought  him  not  to  go  nea 

Benedict.    His  name  always  woke  new  sorrow  in  he 

breast.    She  knew  that  he  had  forgotten  her,  or  wa 

trying  to  forget;  that  the  talent  she  was  once  so  prom 

of  had  been  applied  to  lower  uses.    Through  the  paper 

she  learned  of  Benedict's  new  success,  and  henceforth 

gulf  opened  between  them.    Loving  him  too  much  no 

to  suffer,  and  too  courageous  not  to  struggle  against  he 

sorrow,  she  strove  to  conceal  it  from  every  one.    Bt 

Xavier  was  not  deceived  by  his  sister's  apparent  sereniti 

and  in  spite  of  her  request  and  his  promise  resolved  t 

find  out  for  himself  if  Benedict  did  not  share  in  h< 

regret     He  knew  it  was  so  at  the  first  word  Bene 

diet  spoke,  and  at  the  first  glance  he  gave  him.    Tl 

very  way  in  which  he  took  his  hands,  the  voice  in  whu 

h2  uttered  his  name,  sufficed  to  show  that  Sabine's  men 


wHtm 


ier  gravely, "  then  a  young 


L    I  am  going  to  be  mar- 


have  nothing,  yet  she  is 


lise  Dubois.    You  do  not 
onest  and  honorable  man, 

s." 

i  hand. 

breakfast  was  going  to  end 
i  their  leave,  and  Benedict, 
imself  alone  with  Xavier. 
1  each  other  for  two  years, 
ing  the  war.  When  peape 
:hd's  confession  had  exon- 
ight  him  not  to  go  near 
\  woke  new  sorrow  in  her 
had  forgotten  her,  or  was 
ent  she  was  once  so  proud 
uses.  Through  the  papers 
w  success,  and  henceforth  a 

Loving  him  too  much  not 
,  not  to  struggle  against  her 
al  it  from  every  one.  But 
is  sister's  apparent  serenity, 
md  his  promise  resolved  to 
ledict  did  not  share  in  her 
to  at  the  first  word  Bcne- 

glance  he  gave  him.    The 

lis  hands,  the  voice  in  which 

to  show  that  Sabine's  mem- 


THE  BROKEN  IDOL. 


323 


ory  survived  all  else.  Scarcely  were  they  alone,  when 
Benedict  said  in  a  voice  of  much  emotion, 

"  Why  did  you  never  come  all  this  long  time  ?" 

"  I  knew  you  were  busy  and  happy,"  said  Xavier. 

"  Happy  !"  repeated  Benedict,  shaking  his  head. 

"  To-morrow  is  the  opening  of  the  Salon,  and  you  are 
to  exhibit  your  great  work  to  the  judges;  but  its  success 
is  already  bruited  abroad.  Shall  I  be  the  only  one  who 
has  not  seen  this  marvel  of  modern  art  ?" 

Benedict  pointed  to  the  group. 

"  Go  and  look  at  it,"  he  sdid. 

Whilst  Xavier  was  examining  the  fountain,  Benedict 
threw  himself  upon  a  sofa  and  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands.  Xavier  stood  a  long  time  before  the  group. 
When  he  came  back  to  his  friend's  side,  he  said 
simply, 

"  It  is  really  very  fine,  very  fine." 

But  he  spoke  without  enthusiasm,  and  in  a  tone  which 
betrayed  some  hidden  emotion. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,"  said  Benedict  all  at  once  in  a 
troubled  voice.  "I  want  to  hear  from  your  lips  the 
truth,  terrible  though  it  be,  perhaps  fatal.  I  want  to 
hear  it,  even  though  it  puts  the  last  touch  to  the  ruin  of 
my  soul.    Sabine  does  not  love  me  ?" 

"  She  has  g^iven  you  up,  at  all  events,"  said  Xavier. 

"She  never  loved  me!"  cried  Benedict  vehemently. 
"  She  sacrificed  me  to  a  mere  nothing — ^a  dream — some 
pride  of  her  own." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Xavier. 

"  Was  it  not  pride  that  made  her  put  an  end  to  all  that 
her  father  had  arranged  between  us  ?  What  did  I  ask 
,  of  her  in  that  hour  of  sorrow  and  affliction  except  con- 
stancy and  good  faith  ?" 

"Do  you  reproach  her  with  the  very  excess  of  her 
generosity  ?"  said  Xavier. 


mimmm^'- 


3*4 


IDOLS. 


*♦  She  had  no  right  to  drive  me 


"Yes,"  said  Benedict, 
from  her  in  her  grief."  ^^ 

"  She  did  not  want  to  bring  dishonor  upon  you,    said 

Xavier. 
«  She  has  brought  worse— ruin,"  said  Benedict  gloomily. 
"  Ruin,  when  to-morrow  you  will  be  famous  ?" 
•'  Famous !    Ah,  you.  too,  with  that  word  on  your  lips  !^ 
What  is  this  fame  to  me  ?    To  whom  can  I  offer  it  ?    Will 
any  face  grow  joyful  because  of  my  triumph  ?    No;  I 
have  toiled,  and  they  tell  me  I  have  succeeded;  but  I 
worked  with  pain  and  a  sort  of  rage.     I  wanted  fame  to 
avenge  me,  and  I  sought  it  no  matter  where.     Do  you 
think  I  absolve  myself,  Xavier?    No.     To-morrow  this 
statue  will  pass  out  of  my  keeping;  in  six  months'  time 
it  will  stand  in  open  daylight,  attracting  crowds  of  sight- 
seers; this  evil  work  will  make  me  rich,  but  it  cannot 
make  me  happy.      Oh  for  the  pure  fame  that  I  once 
sought  for  Sabine's  sake  !    Oh  for  the  crowns  I  once  of- 
fered, not  to  pagan  deities,  but  to  the  Madonna  !  ^  All  is 
over.    I  chose  this,  and  I  cannot  now  draw  back." 
Benedict  rose  and  unveiled  the  rough  cast  of  his  St 

"Look  at  that  clay  figure,"  he  said;  "it  would  have 
been  worthy  of  Sabine  and  of  myself.  I  saw  Sabine  as 
beautiful  as  that  the  evening  she  sang  the  O  Jtsu  of 
Haydn,  which  she  will  never,  never  sing  again  for  me.' 

Emofion  choked  his  voice.  He  made  a  desperate 
struggle  for  composure,  failed,  sobbed  aloud,  and  threw 
himself  into  Xavier's  arms,  saying, 

"  Oh  my  brother,  my  brother !" 

Tears  came  into  Xavier's  eyes. 

"  I  can  understand,"  said  he.  "  I  have  been  too  weak 
myself  to  blame  you.  On  the  one  hand  the  saint,  on  the 
oth-r  the  idol,  and  you  prostrated  yourself  before  the 
latter." 


mMmmmmmmmmmk. 


Iiad  no  right  to  drive  me 

ishonor  upon  you,"  said 

/•said  Benedict  gloomily, 
will  be  famous  ?" 
I  that  word  on  your  lips  !^ 
rhom  can  I  offer  it  ?    Will 
af  my  triumph  ?    No;  I 
I  have  succeeded;  but  I 
rage.     I  wanted  fame  to 
matter  where.     Do  you 
?    No.     To-morrow  this 
ping;  in  six  months'  time 
ttracting  crowds  of  sight- 
:  me  rich,  but  it  cannot 
B  pure  fame  that  I  once 
for  the  crowns  I  once  of- 
to  the  Madonna  !    All  is 
3t  now  draw  back." 
the  rough  cast  of  his  St 

'  he  said;  "it  would  have 
myself.  I  saw  Sabine  as 
r  she  sang  the  O  Jesu  of 
never  sing  again  for  me." 
He  made  a  desperate 
,  sobbed  aloud,  and  threw 
ring, 
r!" 
es. 

:.  « I  have  been  too  weak 
:  one  hand  the  saint,  on  the 
trated  yourself  before  the 


THE  BROKEN  IDOL. 


325 


"  Xavier,"  cried  Benedict,  with  the  vehemence  of  deep 
g^ief,  "  can  nothing  soften  Sabine — prayer,  promise,  re- 
pentance ?" 

"  She  could  not  come  in  here,"  said  Xavier,  pointing 
to  the  various  groups  and  statues  which  adorned  the 
room. 

"  No,  no,  I  know,"  said  Benedict  hastily.  "  But  if  i 
purified  the  sanctuary  where  she  once  promised  to  dwell, 
if  I  drove  the  idol  from  its  temple  and  broke  it  with  the 
same  hammer  that  brought  it  out  of  nothing,  would  Sa- 
bine come  ?" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  said  Xavier,  terrified  to 
see  that  his  friend  had  seized  a  heavy  mallet. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  your  answer,"  said  Benedict  '*  Shall 
my  false  glory  and  to-morrow's  success  be  annihilated  ? 
Better  so,  if  I  must  purchase  them  at  the  price  of  re- 
morse and  suffering." 

"  But  this  is  a  work  of  genius,"  said  Xavier.  "  You 
will  regret  what  you  did  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  and 
you  will  never  forgive  me  or  Sabine." 

"  Would  she  come  back  ?"  cried  Benedict  again. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Xavier. 

A  terrible  noise  was  heard  in  the  studio. '  Benedict's 
hammer  had  destroyed  the  group  from  which  an  hour 
before  he  expected  so  much  fame  and  happiness. 
"Hylas  and  the  Nymphs"  flew  into  bits,  and  Xavier 
stood  by  in  consternation,  wondering  whether  Benedict 
had  gone  mad  or  whether  he  was  merely  obeying  the 
imperious  voice  of  conscience.  In  a  few  moments  naught 
remained  of  the  fountain  but  the  shapeless  remnants 
strewing  the  studio  floor.  And  beside  them  fell  Ben- 
edict senseless.  Xavier  hastily  called  Beppo,  laid  Bene- 
dict on  the  sofa  in  the  smoking-room,  lowered  the  cur- 
tains separating  it  from  the  studio,  threw  the  green 
branches  offered  to  the  nymphs  at  the  feet  of  St.  Ce- 


336 


IDOLS. 


cilia,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house.     He  jumped  into 
a  cab,  gave  an  address,  and  said  to  the  driver, 

"  Take  me  there  as  quick  as  you  can.  I  will  pay  you 
well." 

The  carriage  fairly  flew.  Xavier  rushed  up  to  his 
sister's  room,  threw  a  Spanish  lace  veil  over  her  head, 
and,  taking  her  arm  in  his,  said,  "  Corde." 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?"  said  she. 

"  Come,"  he  said  in  a  voice  at  once  tender  and  im> 
perious. 

Sabine  obeyed  mechanically. 

When  the  coach  stopped  at  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy, 
and  Sabine,  entering  the  court,  saw  from  the  appearance 
of  the  house  that  it  was  specially  used  by  artists,  she 
was  disturbed.     She  timidly  pressed  Xavier's  hand. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  drew  her  more  quickly  along. 

The  door  of  the  studio  was  ajar.  Xavier  opened  it 
gently,  and  Sabine  saw  at  once  that  it  was  Benedict's. 
She  would  b-ive  run  away,  but  Xavier ^aid, 

"Stay;  if  you  go  now  it  will  not  be  pride,  but  treason; 
no  longer  virtue,  but  inconstancy." 

Picking  up  a  fragfnent  of  the  fountain,  a  charming 
head  of  a  child,  modelled  with  exquisite  art,  and  which 
alone  would  have  added  to  Fougerais'  fame,  he  said, 

"  This  was  part  of  the  great  work  which  was  not  fit 
for  your  eyes." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sabine,  her  face  brightening. 

"  Now,"  said  the  young  man,  opening  the  oiigan  in  the 
studio,  "  sit  down  and  sing." 

"  I  sing  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  the  O  Jesu  of  Haydn." 

"  Brother,"  she  said,  throwing  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  "  I  understand." 

She  took  her  place  upon  the  stool,  and,  in  a  voice  to 


THE  BROKEN  IDOL. 


327 


}use.     He  jumped  into 

d  to  the  driver, 

ou  can.    I  will  pay  you 

avier  rushed  up  to  his 

lace  veil  over  her  head, 

"Corne." 

said  she. 

at  once  tender  and  im> 


he  Boulevard  de  Clichy, 
aw  from  the  appearance 
illy  used  by  artists,  she 
ssed  Xavier's  hand, 
she  asked. 

her  more  quickly  along, 
ajar.    Xavier  opened  it 
that  it  was  Benedict's. 
Lavier^aid, 
ot  be  pride,  but  treason; 

le  fountain,  a  charming 
exquisite  art,  and  which 
j;erais'  fame,  he  said, 
work  which  was  not  fit 

rightening. 

opening  the  oi^gan  in  the 


g  her  arms  around  his 
I  stool,  and,  in  a  voice  to 


which  suppressed  emotion  lent  a  new  power,  she  began 
that  song  the  memory  of  which  bad  so  haunted  Benedict. 

Whilst  Sabine's  voice  rang  out  through  the  room, 
Benedict,  under  the  intelligent  and  affectionate  care  of 
Beppo,  was  slowly  recovering  consciousness.  The  strain 
of  music  seemed  to  exert  a  strange  influence  upon  him, 
as  if  he  wondered  from  what  heavenly  sphere  came  those 
sounds.  Great  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  but  they 
were  peaceful  and  painless  tears;  he  clasped  his  hands, 
murmuring,  "  St.  Cecilia." 

Feeble  and  tottering,  he  arose  and  advanced  to  the 
curtained  arch,  from  which  Beppo  drew  aside  the  par- 
Hire.  Pale  as  Lazarus  arisen  from  the  dead,  he  leaned 
forward,  looked,  stood  motionless,  and  at  last  cried  out, 

«  Sabine !" 

"  See,"  cried  Xavier,  "  your  idol  broken,  the  saint  has 
returned." 

Sabine  did  not  finish  the  hymn.  The  sculptor,  still 
weak,  seemed  utterly  overcome  by  conflicting  emotions. 
But  joy  at  length  triumphed,  and  when  he  held  Sabine's 
hand  he  seemed  to  revive. 

"  Will  you  give  it  to  me  ?"  he  said. 

She  blushed  and  turned  away  her  head. 

"  You  must  ask  Sulpice,"  said  she. 

"  Though  I  have  nothing  now,"  said  Benedict,  "  and 
moreover  those  fragments  of  marble  have  ruined  me." 

Sabine  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  Xavier,"  saH  she,  turning  to  her  brother,  "when  an* 
you  to  marry  Louise  ?" 

*♦  Why  do  you  ask  ?"  said  Xavier. 

"Because— I  thought— it  seemed  to  me,"  said  she, 
"  that  Sulpice  might  marry  us  both  the  same  day." 

Three  months  later,  in  the  chapel  of  the  factory  at 
Charenton,  a  young  priest,  whose  forehead  was  marked 
by  a  scar,  celebrated  a  nuptial  mass,  and  blessed  the 


328 


IDOLS. 


union  of  two  young  couples.  The  workmen,  in  Sunday 
clothes  and  with  joyful  faces,  crowded  the  place,  and 
when  the  newly  married  came  out  of  the  chapel,  two 
young  girls  offered  them  beautiful  bouquets  of  white 
flowers.  There  was  a  general  shaking  of  hands  and 
many  a  moistened  eye.  Sulpice's  discourse  on  the  oc- 
casion drew  tears  from  most  of  his  auditors,  though 
few  of  them  understood  why  he  chose  a  Scripture  text 
concerning  idols,  to  whom  men  often  sacrifice  their 
souls.  So  well  did  the  noble -hearted  priest  portray  the 
sweet  joys  of  sacrifice,  the  power  of  repentance  offered 
at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  the  mysteries  of  persecution, 
martyrdom  endured  for  justice's  sake,  that  all  hearts 
were  thrilled  with  emotion. 

Just  as  the  wedding  party  came  out  of  the  chapel,  the 
nasal  voice  of  Pomme  d'Api  reached  their  ears.  He  car- 
ried under  his  arm  a  bundle  of  illustrated  papers,  and 
cried  out, 

"  Buy  the  Dying  Speech  of  Fleur  d'Echafaud,  and  the 
account  of  his  last  moments.     Only  ten  centimes,  two 


rx 


^us. 


TUB  END. 


he  workmen,  in  Sunday 
:rowded  the  place,  and 
out  of  the  chapel,  two 
iful  bouquets  of  white 
shaking  of  hands  and 
:'s  discourse  on  the  oc- 
>f  his  auditors,  though 
chose  a  Scripture  text 
;n  often  sacrifice  their 
urted  priest  portray  the 
;r  of  repentance  offered 
nysteries  of  persecution, 
>'s  sake,  that  all  hearts 

te  out  of  the  chapel,  the 
hed  their  ears.    He  car- 
illustrated  papers,  and 

ur  d'Echafaud,  and  the 
Only  ten  centimes,  two 


^Mi 


iBrii^aai 


